


To Deceive a Deceiver

by CuddlesandChocolateCake



Series: To Deceive a Deceiver [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Enjoy the product of my untamed imagination, F/M, I've been dying to do this, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2018-11-10 02:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 56,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11117703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuddlesandChocolateCake/pseuds/CuddlesandChocolateCake
Summary: Feyre doesn't believe in soulmates. What does she need with one, anyway? She has a good job, a doting boyfriend, and she wants for nothing. Besides, they're naught but urban legends - pretty stories for the benefit of hopeless romantics. And for Feyre, having a soulmate would cause nothing but trouble.The one in which Feyre's life becomes significantly more complicated, happiness is fickle, and a tattoo changes everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, lovelies! I've been working on this for months now, and I'm finally releasing it into the world. Seeing as I started writing it before ACOWAR was released, there are few, if any, spoilers. But I'll put a note at the beginning of each chapter if there will be an errant spoiler or two. 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy this story!

1.

“That’ll be three fifty, please.”

The young woman places the coins into my outstretched hand, and I idly drop them into the till drawer, the silvery clinking noise adding more music to the symphony of the café. Hisses of steam, footsteps both quick and unhurried, and the dull, muted murmurs of happy customers weave together in an abstract melody that is as familiar to me as the sound of my own voice, having worked here for so many years. 

Right on cue, James appears next to me and passes me a large mug of hot cocoa topped with a generous dollop of whipped cream. I wrap my hands around the hot drink and pass it to her over the counter, wisps of chocolate-scented steam curling into the air. 

“Merry Christmas!” she chirps, smiling jubilantly. 

“Merry Christmas.” I return her cheery smile. Shifting on my aching feet, I roll some of the tension out of my shoulders, built up from a long day brewing drinks and serving the seasonal influx of customers. My shift ended half an hour ago, but the café was positively teeming with patrons seeking a reprieve from the bitter cold, and I wasn't in a rush to go anywhere, so I decided to stay behind to help out. This time of year, the café could always benefit from an extra pair of hands. 

Besides, I have no intention of subjecting myself to the bitter winter weather any sooner than I have to. The comfortable warmth of the café belies the harsh cold outside, the low hum of the coffee machine behind me drowning out the wind howling on the other side of the door. 

So, I am content to keep working for as long as necessary. 

If the motherly cluck coming from behind me is any indication, my boss does not share my opinion. 

“Feyre, what are you still doing here?” she demands. “Don’t you have a life?” Her smile is wry, but her tone borders on exasperation. This isn’t the first time I’ve stayed past the end of my shift, and she and I both know that it won’t be the last. 

I mutter, “Hardly,” and she rolls her eyes—a gesture that very clearly reads, _What am I going to do with you?_

“You’re done for today,” she states, untying my apron in two swift motions—I catch it before it drifts to the floor. “Look, your spot’s empty.” I follow Alis’s gaze and, sure enough, I watch as an elderly couple stands from my favourite table and makes their way out of the café, both of them clutching their coats against the frigid evening air.

Knowing better than to disobey a direct order from Alis, I bend behind the counter to scoop up my worn, paint-splattered canvas backpack and sling it over a shoulder. As I stride across the café, greedily eyeing the newly-vacant table, I can’t quite find it in myself to feel truly guilty about this abrupt end to my workday.

Tucked into a cozy nook right beside the front window, the draughty little corner table offers a perfect view of the plaza, and its myriad people passing by: shoppers bustling through the square, couples walking hand in hand and enjoying the soft snowfall, clusters of children shrieking in delight as they throw snowballs at unsuspecting passersby and catch big, fat snowflakes on their tongues. 

I drop into one of the plush green armchairs with a huff, depositing my bag on the floor and sweeping a few crumbs off of the table. When I lift my head, Alis is walking towards me with a piping hot drink cupped between her small, ebony hands, and a warm smile on her face. 

“Here, dear, enjoy—it’s on me. God knows you’ve earned it.” A light dusting of cinnamon sits atop the snow-white foam, and tendrils of heady, vanilla-scented steam drift up to kiss my face as she hands it to me. She winks and turns away before I can thank her, walking briskly towards the counter to intercept the remaining customers. 

Gazing out the window, I take a sip of the delicious, spiced drink and let the warmth from the mug seep into my chilled hands as I behold the winter scene before me. 

It’s another chilly December evening. Several sets of red, cold-flushed cheeks hide behind wool scarves, and several pairs of mitten-clad hands are cupped to catch the gently falling snow. Darkness is just beginning to fall, and the setting sun sweeps broad pink streaks behind the shops lining the market square, casting long shadows on the cobblestones. In the middle of the square, a single street lamp lights up the falling snow like cold fire, tinting the grey sky around it a dusky orange and giving a hazy glow to the few remaining strangers loitering in the plaza. It is a lovely sight, and one that I long to paint.

I plunge a hand into my bag and grab my sketchbook, placing it on the table with a quiet thump and opening it to my last drawing. It’s a simple image: a plain white mug filled with dark coffee. But, hidden in the mug’s reflective surface are glimpses of harried customers and the bustle of the café, only visible if one looks closely enough. 

Drawing in the Bloomsbury Café is my favourite pastime. When I need to get away from the stress of everyday life, this corner is my refuge, where I can draw until exhaustion and other hindrances beckon me home. It’s easy to forget the oppressive threat of responsibility when I’m drawing, when I’m breathing life into the inanimate or finding beauty in the mundane. In these precious moments, I have the ability to create my own, peaceful world. 

Wishing it were a paintbrush, I pick up my pencil and start tracing the outline of the lone streetlamp shining against the darkening sky. I’ll draw that first and see what emerges later—perhaps people, maybe more snowfall, or the lamp might remain unaccompanied this night, observing the square in solitude. 

My hand breezes across the page as effortlessly as breathing, bringing the image to life with each stroke—first the lamp, then the plaza around it. I add in all of the stores, the nearby bench, and I decide that tonight, there will be no one else there. _A Beacon of Solitude—_ that’s what I’ll call it. 

As I’m penciling in the details of the bookstore in the background, I feel a peculiar prickling sensation in my palm. Nothing alarming—most likely the start of a cramp. Putting my pencil down, I shake out my hand and flex it a few times, but the strange tickle only intensifies, as if something is crawling beneath my skin, aggravated by the movement. 

Warily, I turn my hand over, unsure of what to expect. But all I see is bare skin, rubbed a little red from gripping the pencil—certainly nothing unusual. 

Then, I wince as a sharp, needle-like pain shoots through my hand and drop of blood wells in my palm, as if an invisible needle really did prick me. My eyes widen, and I don’t quite believing what I’m seeing as the ruby red drop stops growing, shivers, and turns black. As it turns into ink. _No…_

As soon as it has fully formed, its initial scarlet colour completely gone, the bead of dark ink starts moving, sweeping across my hand in thin black streaks, stinging my skin wherever it touches. My mouth drops open, my unfinished drawing completely forgotten. 

_This can’t be happening,_ I think, my shock slowly morphing into terror. Then, more desperately, _I need to get this off._

But when I try to move, to wipe the ink away, I find my hand frozen in mid-air, the other rendered similarly immobile in my lap. Trying to master my panic, I push against my invisible restraints, but the action proves futile, and it’s possible that I feel their grips tighten—as if in warning. My heart beats a frantic rhythm, fear flooding through me as the ink stains my palm, painfully etching itself into my skin in a pattern whose design I am not privy to. 

By some stroke of mercy, my head has not been similarly restrained, and I’m able to look around; but nobody appears to be aware of what is happening to me, and I can’t very well cry for help. Despite my efforts, despite my attempts to thrash free, I can’t so much as twitch a finger as the ink does its work on me. 

When it at last stops moving, the bead of ink sinking seamlessly into the design and my hands breaking out of their phantom vices, I dare to look down at my palm. A dark, elegant feline eye stares back at me, unblinking atop my stinging skin. I suck in a sharp breath—I have heard of this happening before, but I repeatedly dismissed the stories as fairytales, ridiculous urban legends. As I gape at my smarting, stained hand, it occurs to me just how swiftly I’ve been proven wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

All thoughts of drawing forgotten, I hastily shove my sketchbook back into my bag and rush to the washroom, tripping over myself and nearly colliding with Alis in my haste. When I slip inside, closing and locking the door behind me, I stare imploringly at the eye and silently, desperately will it to go away. But it merely stares back, unmoved by my panic. Chest heaving, feeling as though I've run a mile, I wash my hands, hissing in pain as I scrub the tender skin, but the ebony ink does not fade. 

_How am I going to explain this to Tamlin?_ I think frantically, raking my untainted hand through my hair. _What this would do to him…_

Tamlin doesn’t have the matching tattoo—that much I know. It would have appeared by now if he did, given that we’ve been seeing each other for months. _Who, then?_

For four years, I’ve been a barista at Bloomsbury. I know all of the regulars, everyone who frequents the café, so it must have been a stranger—someone new to the city, perhaps. Absorbed as I was in my art, I didn’t notice anyone peculiar pass by; but what is a soulmate supposed to look like? How do I find them? Do I even _want_ to find them? What happens if I don’t?

My head is spinning, my heart pounding in my chest—I need some air. But before I step back into the café, I pull my mittens out of my bag and slip them on, shaking off the errant pencil shavings that cling to the dark wool. This secret isn’t one that I’m keen on sharing. 

Taking a deep breath, I school my features into a calm neutrality that belies the panicked state of my mind and leave the safety of the washroom, making a beeline for the front door. But a small, firm hand lashes out from behind the counter as I pass by and grips my arm, whirling me around and yanking me into the secluded, empty staff room.

“Would you like to tell me what on _Earth_ that was about?” Alis orders, her eyebrows raised in question.

_No, definitely not._ “It was nothing,” I assure her. “I must have eaten something earlier that upset my stomach.” I try not to fidget, to betray my unease under her scrutiny, but she knows me far too well to believe my blatant lie. She stares at me, unimpressed.

“Try again.” I’ve known Alis for years—since long before she hired me to work at Bloomsbury. She has supported me through every tough decision I’ve had to make, every impossible situation I’ve been thrust into, and she has been a steadfast friend to me. If there is anyone in the world I can trust with this crushing secret, I realise, it’s her. And one look at her no-nonsense, disbelieving expression tells me that I don’t have very much choice in the matter. 

Finding myself unable to adequately explain what just occurred, I silently remove my mittens and unfurl my left hand, letting the tattooed eye appraise its new observer. My stomach gives another lurch upon seeing it again—some desperate, pleading part of me was clinging to an absurd hope that perhaps, by obscuring it, the tattoo would disappear of its own accord. Clearly, I was mistaken. 

Alis lets out a low whistle. “At least it’s nice to look at,” she offers blithely. “My cousin and his husband have giant footprints right in the middle of their foreheads. I never was sure why.”

A surprised chuckle escapes my lips, her unfazed forthrightness moderately easing my anxiety, if not my confusion. I know little about soulmate tattoos, never having put much stock in them; for as long as I can remember, I believed they were nothing more than unnecessary embellishments for cheesy love stories. But now… I’m positively dumbfounded. 

As expected, Alis remains perfectly collected in the face of this, my newest trouble.

“It’s alright, dear,” Alis goes on, her eyes softening. “There are no rules in place stating that you have to do anything about it, nor that you have to accept the _hand—_ ” she laughs softly at her own joke, “—of whomever shares your marking. Let me have another look.”

Not waiting for my consent, she takes my hand and studies the design anew. The sphinxlike eye is drawn in a style unnervingly like my own, and if I hadn’t witnessed its spontaneous conception minutes ago, I might believe that I’d painted it myself. 

In spite of its stillness, it seems… _alive,_ somehow; and a deep, visceral instinct tells me that, in some strange way, it truly is. The thought thoroughly unnerves me, and I fight the urge to tuck my hand away, out of sight.

But Alis continues her examination, seemingly oblivious to the terror-stricken thoughts running through my mind. Her gentle fingers trace over the tattoo, lightly tickling my palm, and she says, finally, “I’ll keep my eyes open. They must have come into the café earlier today, if it just appeared now, so if they return, I will find them. Now, go home and get some rest.” She pulls me into a brief, tight hug before shooing me outside, and in spite of my initial hesitance, I find myself profoundly relieved that I confided in her. At the very least, I no longer have to bear this weight alone.

But Tamlin would never understand. To him, this tattoo would represent a betrayal of the acutest kind, regardless of the fact that this wasn’t my fault, and regardless of the fact that I have absolutely no interest in looking for my “soulmate”. But it wouldn’t matter—by revealing it to him, I’d risk crushing our relationship. I’d risk crushing _him._

I gratefully put my mittens back on as I abandon the warmth of the café to brave the cold winter night. The first blast of icy air rushing through the open door has me shivering, my teeth chattering most uncomfortably, and I wrap my arms tightly around myself in a vain attempt to defend myself against the freezing wind, wishing for a thicker jacket. 

“Good luck, my dear,” Alis calls to my retreating form, right before the frosted glass door closes behind me. And as I feel a dull pulse begin beating in the centre of my left hand, it occurs to me just how much I’ll need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! The next one will be up in a week, and until then, let me know what you thought, and come find me on Tumblr :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no ACOWAR spoilers in this chapter. Enjoy!

3.

Mercifully, Tamlin is not home when I stumble half-frozen into our apartment. Kicking the door closed behind me, I shed my boots and coat and shake off any lingering clumps of snow. For a moment, I contemplate leaving my mittens on, but I ultimately toss them in the closet, too. I spent the entire walk home trying to think of ways to avert Tamlin’s attention from my tattooed hand; and though concealment might be a good temporary solution, it wouldn’t work for very long. If I want to keep this… _deception_ up for longer than a single evening, I need to make it much more convincing. 

I’m not sure when Tamlin will get home, so I need to move quickly. Mind whirring, I tear through drawers and search the cupboards, pulling out an array of random items, none of which seem to be of any use to me. _Some twine, a few plastic forks, a first-aid kit…_

The moment my eyes fall on the compact white box, a plan starts forming in my mind.

The box easily pops open, and I begin digging through its contents in earnest until I find something useful. Using my teeth, I tear off a long strip of gauze—still bright white and sterile despite how old I suspect the battered, mostly unused kit is—and wrap it several times around my left hand. When I am certain that the eye is no longer visible, I tape the bandage down securely, flexing my hand a few times to make sure that it won’t fall off. I’ll have to remove it if I want to properly hold a pencil—or a paintbrush—but otherwise, it’s perfect. I stuff the remaining gauze into my pocket.

But worry still nags at me. Will this work? Will it be convincing enough? How will I explain the bandage in the first place? My thoughts are a raging hurricane of anxiety, and I can’t help the sick, nervous feeling that washes over me as I reflect on all of the things that could go wrong in this haphazard plan of mine. 

Mostly, though, I wonder if this ruse will be good enough, effective enough to buy me some time to collect my thoughts, and to potentially save Tamlin from heartbreak. 

It’s only after I imagine him, his face contorted with grief and outrage at my faithlessness, that I make myself climb up onto the counter and take a glass down from the cupboard. I grip it tightly, hard enough to stop my hands from trembling; then, cringing, I release it and watch as it shatters on the kitchen floor. It wasn't one of our nicer glasses, so I don’t let myself feel too much remorse for the needless destruction. 

_Not needless,_ whispers a little voice in the back of my head. If Tamlin finds out about this tattoo—my _soulmate_ tattoo… there might not be any coming back from that. For him, or for us. 

I tell myself that I did it for his own good, for the good of our relationship. But the guilt in my gut is as sharp as the shards of shattered glass on the kitchen floor.

 

4. 

My heartbeat picks up when I hear the front door creak open, and I check my wrapped hand to make sure that no black marks show through the clean white gauze. But it’s completely opaque, with none of the damning tattoo showing. _Act natural._

“Hey,” I call as I step gingerly around the broken glass strewn across the floor tiles. Thankfully, I manage to avoid cutting myself, and once I’ve cleared the area, I stride up to the door and embrace my boyfriend. He smiles broadly as he sweeps me into his arms and kisses me, his arms encircling my waist. 

“I missed you,” he says into my mouth, and I relax into his embrace, savouring this rare, simple moment, enjoying the feeling of his strong arms around me and his lips on mine. But when my bandaged hand comes up to cup his cheek, he starts and pulls away, concern drawing his brows together.

“What happened to you?” His green eyes darken.

“Nothing,” I say, doing my best to appear unfazed. “I broke a glass and cut myself—that’s all.” My smile is meant to be reassuring, placating, and it seems to mollify him slightly. But he still takes my hand and frowns at it, as though he can see right through the gauze to my apparent injury. After a few moments’ scrutiny, he places a featherlight kiss on my palm and lowers my arm. I try not to betray my relief. 

“I’m glad you’re alright. Let me know if you need help changing the bandage later, or if you need to see a doctor… is the cut deep?” 

“Tamlin, I promise—I’m alright.” Before he can say anything else on the matter, I lean forward and capture his lips with my own, tucking my hand behind my back and effectively silencing any further questions. His eyes widen in surprise, but he quickly recovers and returns the kiss with enthusiasm. And that, thankfully, is that. 

“I’m going out with Lucien and the guys tonight. Will you be alright on your own?” His brilliant green eyes bore into mine, a familiar, protective lilt coating his words—part worry, part warning. From that tone, it’s easy to tell what he’s really asking: _Please don’t go anywhere while I’m gone._

Despite the fact that we’ve been together for months now, he still seems to believe that I’m in constant need of his protection. It’s endearing, that he has such a high regard for my well-being, but it also has the tendency to be a bit overbearing. Not that I have the heart to tell him that. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say wryly, brandishing my bandaged hand as if it alone is enough to warrant house arrest. 

Tamlin pulls me to him, the corners of his mouth lifting into a relieved smile, and I melt into his touch as he places a sweet kiss on my forehead. “Thank you.” 

I don’t want to break this tender, fragile moment, but I have responsibilities to take care of, and a prime opportunity to obtain valuable knowledge has just presented itself. I’m not going to waste it. 

“Can I have Mor over while you’re gone?” I ask tentatively. “I don’t really want to spend the night by myself.” _True,_ I think, _but that’s not the only reason that I need her here._

With my body so close to his, I can feel him stiffen, and he breathes an exasperated sigh into my hair. Tamlin isn't very fond of Mor, and she doesn't much care for him, either; but he knows how important she is to me, so he allows me to spend time with her despite his objections to her character. 

_Allows._ The word leaves a sour taste in my mouth. At twenty-one years’ old, I shouldn’t need to request permission to see my best friend. And from Mor’s reaction on the few occasions that I’ve been immature enough to complain about it, I have no doubt that she feels the same way. 

But I don’t dwell on it, this irrational resentment. I can’t blame him for prioritising my safety, even if it is sometimes at the expense of my happiness. I’m not a stranger to making sacrifices for the people I love, and I decided long ago that if protecting me makes him happy, if it gave him a sense of purpose, then I could let him take care of me, shelter me. In truth, it was a laughably small sacrifice. 

“Why don’t you paint instead?” he suggests. When I, again, flourish my “injured” hand, he at least has the good grace to look a bit embarrassed. “Fine,” he concedes, then adds sternly, “but she’s gone by midnight.”

“Sure thing.” I tilt my head up and give him another chaste kiss on the lips and what I hope is a winning smile. “Thank you.” 

“Why don’t you let me clean up before I go?” He jerks his head towards the kitchen, where shattered glass still covers the floor. “I don’t want you to risk hurting yourself again.” 

I shake my head, waving him off. “I made the mess, I’ll clean it up.” He looks like he’s about to protest, but I give him a pointed look—one that reads both gratitude and stubbornness—and he drops it. 

“Alright. I’ll see you later,” he said says in parting, and pauses before reminding me, “Be careful with the glass.” 

When the door snicks shut behind him, I release a long breath I didn’t realise I was holding. The ruse won’t work forever, but for now, at least, it gives me some time to sort everything out. 

Not wanting to waste a moment of this valuable pocket of time, I retrieve my backpack and fish out my phone. There is little hope of finding accurate, helpful information about soulmates online, nor in any book, as I’m certainly not (or, I wasn’t) the only person who holds a skeptical view of the concept. Any chance of gaining even a meagre understanding of how soulmate tattoos work lies with Mor. 

When it comes to discussing the fantastical, the inexplicable, or the unbelievable, she seems to have a never-ending supply of knowledge at her disposal. I’ve never met anyone more open-minded than she is, and for that, at this moment, I am profoundly grateful.

Feyre, 8:29pm: **Hey, are you free?**

Not even a minute passes before she replies. 

Mor, 8:30pm: **Yeah, what’s up?**

Feyre, 8:30pm: **Want to come over? Tamlin’s not home.**

Mor, 8:30pm: **Sure, I’ll be there in five!**

I smile, another wave of relief coursing through me—I can always count on Mor to be there exactly when I need her most, whether she knows the extent of my desperation or not. But in spite of that, I can’t decide whether or not to tell her about the tattoo. The thought makes me miserable, because all I want in this moment is to talk to my best friend about possibly the most complicated, dangerous situation I’ve ever found myself in. 

It isn't a matter of trust: I know that I can tell Mor anything, and no matter what it is, how good or bad or frightening, she would never dismiss me or walk away. But, she has a fervent and longstanding dislike for Tamlin, and the last thing I want is to give her another reason to suggest that I break up with him. He can be overprotective, and sometimes his anxiety about my safety turns into a source of stress for me, but I can’t leave him. And I don’t want to. This goddamn tattoo is nothing more or less than a complication, and something that I need to manage on my own. Mostly.

Careful not to break the tape, I gingerly lift up the bandage and take a peek underneath. And I swear that as I peer at it, the yellow kitchen light filtering weakly through the gauze, that tattooed eye narrows at me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> N.B.: Some of these next chapters will have scenes where Tamlin is emotionally abusive to Feyre, and I will put trigger warnings at the beginning of each of those chapters. One thing, though: Tamlin, both in the series and in my story, is incredibly similar to an ex-boyfriend of mine, and I've written a lot of these scenes the way that I know he would have handled them (and sometimes re-purposed things that have happened to me). So please, no comments about how I'm mis-representing domestic abuse, because I am writing from my experience. 
> 
> It took a lot out of me to re-visit that relationship to create these scenes, and I would not have written them at all if I didn't know what I was talking about. I realise that everyone has different experiences when it comes to a subject as important as this, but this was my own, so please, no mean comments. I'm here to write, to make people happy and to give people stories, not to field accusations that I don't know what I'm talking about. I promise, I do. 
> 
> All of that aside, I hope you liked this chapter; I'll have another one out next week. Let me know what you thought, and come find me on Tumblr :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw mentions of emotional abuse (mostly contained to the last quarter)
> 
> Refer to Chapter 3's end-of-chapter note for more clarification about this topic, but I wanted to tag it just in case. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this chapter!

5.

True to her word, Mor arrives scant minutes later, pounding on the front door with an urgency that might suggest she’s being pursued. When I swing the door inward, I find her standing alone at the threshold, blowing warm air into her hands; there’s no immediate danger to be found, besides the unforgiving Prythian cold—the stagnant sort that thrives in the staircases and hallways of our apartment complex this time of year.

“Let me in,” Mor demands. “It’s _freezing_ out here. Why did I ever agree to move to this godforsaken city?” she moans, rubbing warmth into her arms as I step aside to let her in. I don’t bother pointing out that she was born here.

A draught of cold air whooshes in behind her as she crosses the threshold, and I promptly shut the door, waiting for her to throw her coat unceremoniously into the closet in her typical manner before we relocate to my room. _Mine_ , not ours.

Tamlin and I met a year ago, not long after my hasty departure from my family’s home, when it turned out that my new apartment was in the same complex as his own. During those first few weeks, we were constantly running into each other, to my initial annoyance: at the mailbox, on the stairs, in the hallways. He seemed to be everywhere I needed to be—it was infuriating. But after a while, my stubborn dislike of him began to abate, my feelings growing less hostile every time we met. And after a while, I began to fall for him.

After several weeks of these encounters (it didn't occur to me until much later that perhaps not all of these run-ins were completely coincidental), he finally asked me to go on a date with him—a couple of seconds after he pushed me up against the wall of the stairwell and kissed me senseless. Of course, I said yes.

A few blissful months later, as our relationship started to become more serious, he asked me to move in with him. I was elated as I told him _yes_ , although I was more than a little bit confused when he gave me his second bedroom, especially given that I slept with him in his room most nights. But he insisted that it was important for me to have my own space, so I didn’t argue. Now, I understand why.

With a great sigh, Mor collapses on my bed, sprawling out over my old purple comforter like a blonde starfish, and I laugh as I sit down next to her, pushing her legs over to make some room for myself. When she notices my hurt hand, her brows pinch together, but I silence her impending question with a brief, concise explanation: “I broke a glass and sliced my hand open. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Alright,” she says simply, shrugging her lean shoulders. Mor isn’t the type to pity or coddle, for which I’m grateful, especially given the circumstance. “So, what’s new and exciting?”

“Nothing really—just wanted to catch up.” In the time that it took Mor to get here, I reflect, I should have been able to come up with a better conversation starter.

“Uh-huh, sure,” she deadpans, her lips twisting into a smirk. “What’s really up? Is something the matter?”

Not much gets past Mor—I have to give her that. So I settle for a partial truth. After dragging her here on such short notice, I at least owe her that much.

“I’ve been curious lately,” I begin, trying not to look away, “about soulmate tattoos.”

Mor’s eyebrows flick up, her incredulity apparent. “I thought you didn’t believe in that _nonsense_.”

“Well, I may have reconsidered,” I retort, continuing before she gets the chance to voice her skepticism. “How do they work, exactly?”

She still doesn’t seem convinced that this line of questioning is borne of innocent curiosity, but she humours me. “Here’s how it goes,” she begins, rolling onto her stomach, the mattress creaking beneath our combined weights.

“They say that there is one person out there for each of us—a perfect match, an equal; _that_ would be your soulmate. As for the tattoos, well, it’s a matter of proximity, really. When you and your soulmate first come near each other—say, if you both find yourself in the same room—your souls respond to each other, and _poof_ —both of your tattoos appear. They’re usually the same design, and in the same place on your body.” Given Alis’s brief explanation, I gathered that much.

“So you don’t necessarily have to see them… your soulmate, for the tattoo to appear?” When my tattoo began etching itself into my skin, I was so focused on my drawing that I didn’t notice any of the people around me. If my soulmate indeed passed by me, I didn’t lay eyes on them. Would I have recognised them for what they are if I had?

“I don’t think so,” she replies, examining her perfectly manicured nails, painted a soft mauve. “They just have to be near you.”

“So that’s it? Do the tattoos… do anything?” _Should I be worried about this mysterious stranger tracking me to my doorstep?_

Mor chuckles, looking up from her nails to smile deviously at me. “Yes, as a matter of fact. If you stare at your tattoo for more than five seconds, it opens a window, of sorts, and your soulmate can see you through it.” I gape at her, fighting a very strong urge to hide my tattooed hand behind my back, further incriminating myself. At my slack-jawed expression, she bursts into laughter.

It hits me a too-long moment later.

 _Of course that’s not true, you fool_ , I seethe silently, hoping my shocked reaction didn’t give me away.

Between delighted giggles, she manages to wheeze, “Relax, Feyre, I’m kidding. You’re so gullible.” I throw a pillow at her, but it has little effect. She just plucks it from midair and cackles into it.

It takes her a few minutes, but once she recovers from her fit of laughter, she goes on with her explanation. “Besides, you and Tamlin aren’t soulmates.” _And thank god for that,_ she finishes silently, before adding, “so there’s no way for him to know that you’re currently asking _very dangerous questions._ ” There’s a glint in her eye that suggests just how much she resents my boyfriend, resents how he keeps tabs on me to the point that it limits what I can and can’t discuss in the privacy of my own bedroom. Not that he’d ever admit to scrolling through my text messages or checking my phone calls when he thinks I’m not looking. But I’ve made a habit of deleting them as they come through.

“In answer to your question,” Mor goes on, “there hasn’t been much research done on soulmates—especially given the number of people who don’t believe that they exist at all—” a pointed look in my direction, “—but a popular theory is that if your soulmate is in danger, you can feel it. Or any strong emotion, really. You might not get the little things—you wouldn’t know if they’re having a bad day, for example. But if they’re terrified or panicking or depressed, you’d feel it.” A fire seems to burn in her eyes as she speaks, and for a moment, it sounds as though she’s speaking from experience… as though she’s talking about herself.

But in a heartbeat, the easy confidence in her voice ebbs away. Dispassionately, she adds, “This is all hearsay, though.”

I don't voice the question on my mind: _How do you know all of this?_ If I’m keeping secrets, I have no place digging into hers. Instead, I say in a voice as measured as I can manage, “I believe you. I was just curious.”

But lying evidently isn’t something I’m adept at, because her molten brown eyes narrow at me, her head cocking to the side. “Feyre, what’s really going on?”

Despite how desperately I want to, I decide that it would be best not to tell her. She would surely want to help me find my soulmate, if that’s what I want, and she would support me equally if I decide that I don’t; but admitting it to Mor would make it _real_. And I’m not sure I want it to be. It _can't_ be—not now, with Tamlin getting more and more controlling every day. I don't want to risk him finding out, or he might never let me leave the apartment.

I silently beg for her forgiveness. “It isn’t about me, in case you’re wondering,” I pledge, willing my face not to betray me. “I saw a woman and her boyfriend at the cafe today, and they both had identical tattoos. It just… got me thinking that maybe it’s not just an urban legend.”

Although she doesn’t seem wholly convinced, she doesn’t press the matter any further. “I think it’s a really beautiful kind of magic.” _Magic_. The word resonates through my mind like a bell left to ring for too long. That’s what it is, really—it has to be.

As I consider what Mor said, that there might very well be magic in a world as bitter and undeserving as ours, my eyes drift absently across the room—coming to a rest on the digital clock perched on my nightstand. I blanch when I register the time: 12:13.

I swear under my breath. “Mor, uh…” My voice trails off, and I can’t bring myself to say the words: _Tamlin doesn’t want you here._ Or worse, _Tamlin will blame me if you’re still here when he gets home._ I grimace. I don’t think I can handle another night spent convincing Tamlin that, _of course I still love him, and wanting to see my friends doesn’t change that._

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, not a trace of annoyance on her beautiful face, looking for all the world as if I hadn’t just kicked her out to avoid a confrontation with my boyfriend. “I’ll see you… oh!” She grins. “I meant to tell you: my cousin’s in town, and all of us are getting together tomorrow night at Rita’s to welcome them—you’re invited,” she trills, winking.

“Sure,” I reply, _if it’s ok with Tamlin._ Mor understands the unspoken second half of that sentence, but still she shouts a decisive, “See you there!” as she makes her way out the door.

Once she’s gone, I check my left hand to make sure that the gauze didn’t shift when I wasn’t paying attention, but it’s still in place.

With a head somewhat clearer than it was a few hours ago, I review all that I’ve learned. At least now I know that my _soulmate_ —I still have trouble wrapping my head around the concept—won’t be able to hunt me down.

Curiosity still gnaws at me though. Curiosity, and dread.

Lately, though I’m loath to admit it, Tamlin’s anxiety has been getting worse. Each day, he seems to conjure up a new flavour of worry, a new reason to be scared for me, and I find myself with less and less freedom to do as I please.

But it wasn’t always as bad as it is now.

At the beginning of our relationship, Tamlin wasn’t nearly as strict about how I spent my time, or with whom—only specifying when I should be home and checking up on me from time while I was out. But something changed as our relationship progressed, as he began to love me more. I can’t tell if it’s animosity towards my friends or an obsession with my safety—perhaps both—but it seems as though he thinks that any time that I spend with others is time that I could be spending with him, and therefore wasted. Too many of my nights out are concluded trying to convince Tamlin that I still love him—that I don’t love _anyone_ more than I love him. _Don’t you love me?_ is a refrain that I’ve become sickeningly familiar with—one that can turn even the best days sour, knowing that I’ve failed him again in some way.

More recently, though, his desperate anxiety has developed a frightening tendency to shift into anger—because _he_ should be my first priority. It has never escalated to physical violence, and he only raises his voice at me once in awhile, but I don’t blame him. It’s my fault for making him feel that way, and what right do I have to invalidate his feelings?

But I’ve begun to fear his reaction every time I come home after a night out, to fear _him_ —and I’ve started going out less and less as a result. If he gets angry enough at me, if he scares me enough at any point, would that be sufficient for my… _them_ to be able to find me? Would that register as a strong emotion? Seeing Mor tomorrow suddenly seems like an impossible feat.

Trying not to think about it too much, trying not to feel like a lying, unfaithful piece of trash as I stare down at my bandaged hand, I put on slippers and go to the kitchen to sweep up the glass. As I grab the broom, I imagine I’m sweeping all of my problems into the garbage along with the broken shards.

The front door swings open just as I dump the last of the mess into the trash, and I go to greet Tamlin, leaning the broom against a nearby wall. But instead of pulling me in for a kiss as he did earlier, he steps a bit too close and towers over me, scowling. When I meet his gaze, I can tell that he’s sober, though it hardly matters. Alcohol only makes him more anxious and more inclined to find fault with me. Or my friends. When— _if_ it escalates into yelling, the only difference it makes is whether or not the apology the following morning will be accompanied by a hangover.

“I bumped into _Mor_ on my way in.” He spits her name as if it carries a bad taste, and I wince. “Wasn’t she supposed to be gone by midnight?” I look down at my feet, trying to ignore the hurt in his eyes and the slow, steady fear creeping into me. The fear that this will be the night he decides that my love for him isn’t strong enough, and he’ll leave.

“Why do you always take advantage of me? Do I not do enough for you? Am I not a good boyfriend?” It would be no use pointing out that it was an accident, that I lost track of time, that it didn’t mean anything. So I merely mumble an apology, not having the energy to bite back—I never do.

“I get it, Feyre. You love her more than you love me.” I flinch. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this argument—which is generally more supplication on my end than actual discussion—but before I can contradict him, he’s already retreating to his room, closing the door behind him. I get the message: _You can sleep alone tonight._ And if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t mind at all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an ACOWAR spoiler in this chapter, so if you haven't read the book yet, read on at your own risk!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter :)
> 
> NOTE: Minor edits made August 14th, 2017.

6.

After around an hour of carefully-worded pleading the following day—interspersed with a few tearful, heartfelt apologies assuaging various hurts from our fight—Tamlin finally consents to let me meet Mor at Rita’s tonight, as long as I’m back home by eleven. It’s pretty generous, considering my obvious lack of consideration for yesterday’s curfew, but I don’t say this. Instead, I thank him with all of my heart and wrap him in my arms, hoping that if I hold him tightly enough, if I kiss him hard enough, I might give last night’s wounds a fighting chance at stitching themselves shut. When he returns the kiss with equal enthusiasm, crushing me to his chest as if he’s trying to hold together all the pieces of a broken doll, I have the distinct feeling that he’s wishing for the same thing.

It works, and soon our fight is forgotten, another unimportant memory to collect dust in our minds, replaced by thoughts of more important things. Such as tonight’s outing.

Despite the fact that I’m going into this meeting blind, knowing next to nothing about this person, I find myself uncharacteristically excited to meet Mor’s cousin. In a group as tight-knit as ours, strangers are rarely allowed in, which gives me some insight as to how important this person must be to Mor, if she’s inviting them into our inner circle. I’ve never heard Mor mention a cousin before—I didn’t even know that she had any, given how little she talks about her family. But if they’re anything like my dearest friend, I’m sure we’ll get along.

The sound of my phone buzzing a bit too close to my ear shakes me out of my drowsy reverie, startling me into an upright position. Upon reading Mor’s brief account of how she has most definitely caught frostbite by now as she waits for me in the parking lot, I regretfully abandon my spot on the bed, check my reflection one last time and bolt out the door, chuckling under my breath at her histrionics as I hastily finger-comb my hair into some semblance of my natural waves.

When she first sees me skid into view, nearly wiping out on a patch of well-concealed ice, she gives me an exasperated look—softened significantly by her halfhearted attempt to stifle her laughter.

“It t-t-took you long enough,” she comments through violently chattering teeth. Why she chose to stand outside in the cold instead of waiting in the idling car is beyond me, but I don’t voice this unsolicited opinion, instead grinning apologetically at her and climbing into the passenger seat.

Even with ice coating the road and snow lashing at the windshield, Mor still drives at a jarring speed, and though it makes the trip to Rita’s much shorter, it leaves my heart stuttering erratically for minutes after we skid to a stop. I heave a shaky sigh of relief when we at last arrive, piling out of her compact blue nightmare and ambling up towards the door of our beloved haunt.

Rita’s is a comfortable hybrid between a bar and a nightclub—one side serving as a relaxed environment for chatting and socialising, the other better suited to dancing and letting loose. When the five of us go out, we typically start out at the bar and gradually migrate over to the dance floor—usually with Mor in the lead. With that in mind as I dressed earlier, I settled for comfortable black jeans, a sparkly silver top and a black leather jacket, and swept on some wine-red lipstick for good measure. _Never hurts._ The jacket does little against the biting cold, but we aren't outside for long anyway, and soon, I'm embraced by Rita's familiar ale and food-scented warmth. 

Though Mor picked me up fairly early, when we stroll into the bar, Cassian and Azriel are already seated at the large, round table that we long ago designated as ours, both lounging indolently in the long booth wrapping around the perimeter. The former is, as usual, taking up way too much space in a snug black t-shirt and ripped jeans, while the latter is as stoic and elegant as ever, though he grins at us as we approach the table. Mor and I make our way over, and she slides in beside Azriel, leaning her head casually on his shoulder.

Mor keeps her personal life fairly private, rarely—if ever—talking about past or present partners, but she confided in me some time ago that, though she’s been with men in the past, she has always preferred being with women. Everyone else already knew, of course, just as they know that Azriel has little interest in romantic or sexual relationships to begin with. But despite both of their preferences, Mor and Azriel are inseparable as friends, and have fooled many into believing that they have feelings for each other that surpass the platonic affection that they share—myself included.

I scoot in beside Cassian, taking care to keep my bandaged hand concealed under the table. No need to draw attention to it.

Once I sit down, Cassian pats his own black-clad shoulder, nodding his head at Mor and Azriel, comfortably entwined. “You’re more than welcome to lean on me as well, if you feel so inclined,” he murmurs, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. He’s joking, of course, seeing as he’s currently pining over my eldest sister, but…

“The last I heard, Cassian,” says an alluring male voice from somewhere behind me, “no one has ever taken you up on that offer.” I turn to locate the source of the voice, and I blink once. Twice.

The man striding towards me is, without question, the most attractive person I have ever laid eyes on, and the smirk that tugs on the corner of his full lips suggests that he knows it, too. He stands with his hands casually tucked into his pockets, appraising me with curious blue eyes that shine violet in the low light of the bar. Absentmindedly, I wonder if they look that way in the light as well. He, like Cassian, wears a nondescript black t-shirt that does nothing to conceal the lean muscle limning his arms, and above the shirt, I notice the edge of a black tattoo peeking out. But I can’t fully see it from where I’m sitting, not with his shirt on—I shove away the sudden, unexpected thought. Not wanting to get caught staring, lest it be misconstrued as... something else, I look back at Mor—who is grinning fiendishly, looking every inch a vixen hoarding a dangerous secret.

“Feyre, meet my cousin,” she says, drawing out _cousin_ in such a way that it’s clear how much she’s been anticipating the release of this information. My eyebrows shoot up before I can help it, and I look back and forth between them, searching for some unapparent resemblance. He laughs softly at my bewildered expression, which is evidently more telling of my surprise than I want it to be. When I direct a glare at Mor for this detail that she conveniently left out, the one concerning her cousin being an outrageously attractive man, she beams at me—the very picture of innocence.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Feyre,” he says, my name rolling smoothly off his tongue, twisted slightly with a soft accent that I can’t quite place.

“It’s nice to meet you too…” 

“Rhysand,” Mor pipes up.

The man— _Rhysand_ —grimaces. “Please, call me Rhys. Only my enemies call me Rhysand,” he adds in a low whisper, giving me a conspiratorial half smile.

I huff a laugh and nod, more at ease now that the initial shock of his appearance has worn off. Blocking alarming thoughts of Tamlin—of what would have happened if he’d been here to witness my embarrassing reaction to this man, I murmur a simple, “Nice to meet you.”

With impressive grace, he slides into the booth next to me, not even removing his hands from his pockets as he does. I’m sure I would have fallen over sideways if I tried that. "Likewise," he purrs with an appropriately feline smile, and a shiver snakes down my spine. I subtly wrap my jacket tighter around myself, hoping to ward off the strange, sudden chill. 

“I’m going to go order. Does anyone want anything?” Mor asks, uncoiling to her feet in a motion so smooth that I'm left somewhat less doubtful that she and Rhys are family. Quietly comparing them both, I surmise that unfathomably good looks must run in the family. But though they are both stunning, their beauty is opposite to each other’s. Mor is wreathed in gold, whereas Rhys seems to be the dark side of their shared coin, his short, raven hair bearing no resemblance to his cousin’s radiant blonde curls.

“Get some wings, will you?” Cassian requests, dragging me out of my thoughts, and everyone nods their agreement. Without further ado, Mor sidles up to the bar to place our order, and conversation turns to our newest addition.

“It’s been awhile, brother,” says Cassian, reaching over me to clasp Rhys on the shoulder—I have to lean back in my seat to avoid getting hit by his arm.

“It’s good to have you back,” Azriel adds, smiling softly.

“You’re brothers?” I know that Cassian and Azriel are related, but I had no idea that they have a third sibling.

“Not really,” Rhys clarifies, “but we grew up together, at least for a short time, so we’re as good as brothers.” I appreciate his meaning—I love my sisters, but I know first-hand that between the relationships decided by blood and those created by choice, the latter forms a bond infinitely stronger. Mor can certainly attest to that.

“So, what brings you here?” I ask him, curiosity getting the better of me.

“This is home, actually,” he replies, his captivating eyes sparkling with amusement. “Well, I like to think of Prythian as my real home. I was born here, but for reasons he never deigned to explain to me, my father shipped me and my mother off to England before I was old enough to form coherent sentences.” _That explains the accent,_ I realise, filing away that bit of information. For what, I don’t know.

“When I was thirteen, we moved back here—my mom missed home too much to stay away any longer. Dad was furious, initially, but he ended up agreeing to let me stay until I graduated high school. Bless his heart, he tried to send me back a few times—I wouldn’t be surprised if it was completely because of the two troublemakers I chose to call friends.” We all share a laugh at Cassian and Azriel’s expense, and the twinkle of affection in Rhys’s eyes as he regards his completely unabashed brothers makes it clear why he considers Prythian his true home.

“Oh, we had fun, didn’t we Az?” Cassian interjects, directing a lopsided grin across the table at his brother—who, to his credit, merely says, “Trouble and fun mean the same thing to you,” with an all-too-knowing smile.

Chuckling, Rhys goes on. “I wanted to come back here to attend university, but my father wouldn’t allow it, insisting that I ‘complete my education’ there before coming home for good. If you ask me, I think he was just sick of having to get the three of us out of trouble. I just finished my last year, so here I am.” He wraps up his narration with a mock bow, inclining his head so that his night-dark hair falls over his forehead. Inexplicably, my hand twitches with the urge to push it back when he straightens again, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or not when he does it himself, my eager hand falling silent in my lap once more.

Before I get the chance to ask him any more questions, Mor returns to us, somehow managing to balance an obnoxiously large basket of chicken wings and five glasses of water in her comparably small arms. The second everything has been deposited on the table, we dig in with fervour, contented silence filling the space where conversation was moments ago. Forgetting myself, I reach across the table to grab a glass of water, completely exposing my bandaged hand. I try to withdraw it before anyone notices, but Cassian—ever the tactful one—exclaims, “Good god, Feyre. What happened to you?”

Across the table, Mor rolls her eyes and mutters, “Drama queen.” Cassian sticks his tongue out at her and she makes a face at him, followed swiftly by an elegantly vulgar gesture.

Picking up on the lighthearted note that Mor created for me, I insist, “It’s nothing, really. I smashed a glass and got a nice gash for my trouble.” I let out a strained chuckle, tucking my hand back under the table and hoping that conversation will resume its normal course. But both Cassian and Azriel still look concerned, and Mor’s expression has turned sly in a way that I’m not entirely comfortable with.

Thankfully, Rhys cuts in, turning to me and effortlessly changing the topic. “Do you study here?” It’s a bland question—unapologetic small talk—but I see it for what it really is, and I give him a look that hopefully conveys a quiet, sincere _thank you._ But he raises his eyebrows questioningly, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. _Whatever for?_

Once the rest of the table descends once more into amiable chatter, he leans in and whispers, “I figured you probably weren’t interested in going into the gruesome details of your injury,” before leaning back and adopting an innocently inquisitive expression and a relaxed posture, as if he didn’t just save me from a potentially disastrous situation. Even if he had no way of knowing that. A slight twitch of his lips serves as the only indication that he's aware of his role in my newfound relief.

Shaking my head, I laugh under my breath and return my attention to his perfectly-timed question. “Yeah, I just graduated with this lot—” I gesture to our friends, who have already nearly eaten their way through the mountain of chicken wings, “—and now I’m looking for work in my field, which, as it turns out, is nearly impossible.”

“Oh? And what field would that be?” Despite the fact that the question was initially meant as a diversion, he sounds sincere in his curiosity, his eyes not leaving mine as he waits for my answer.

“I’m an—” I cut myself off when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. Trying not to wince, I peer down at the screen.

Tamlin, 10:56pm: **Feyre, where are you?**

 _Shit._ As discreetly as I can, I flash Mor a look across the table and scratch my nose. She’s well acquainted with Tamlin’s tendency to set curfews—and my tendency to forget them—so she insisted that we come up with some sort of signal, so I don’t have to explain my situation to the others every time I have to leave abruptly. They’ve likely guessed why, given that I’ve never introduced any of the men to Tamlin, knowing it would just increase his suspicions about my loyalty; but they never ask questions, and no one seems to be offended that my boyfriend doesn’t know that they exist. I’m sure Cassian would laugh himself hoarse if he knew that, outside of our circle, he’s _Cassandra_ and Azriel becomes _Alexandra_ for all intents and purposes.

Without hesitation, Mor gets up, making no excuses and giving me a grim, understanding smile. I turn to Rhys and smile apologetically, vaguely gesturing towards Mor as if to say, _I’ve got to go._ He grins at me as he gets smoothly to his feet, his hands still resting in his pockets as he lets me pass. But his smile fades when he sees my face, as if he's noticed a flaw in my carefully-arranged expression. “Are you alright?” he murmurs, too low for anyone to hear, his accent more pronounced in his hushed tone of voice.

“I’m fine,” I say with a practiced smile. “Are you staying here long?” I inquire, and though he knows that I’m changing the topic on purpose, he doesn’t comment on it, answering my question without hesitation.

“Yeah, I just moved back in with that one—” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder at Mor, laughing as Cassian and Azriel regale each other with no doubt outrageous tales, “—so I’ll be here indefinitely.” There’s a smirk in his voice as he speaks, and his English accent makes every word that comes out of his mouth sound sweet and sophisticated. A part of me that I'm desperately trying to ignore wishes that he'd keep talking, so that I could keep listening to his musical lilt, but before either of us gets the chance to say anything else, Mor catches my eye and inclines her head towards the parking lot. _Come on._ I hurry after her.

“See you around,” I hear him call from behind me as I walk swiftly away, but before I can turn back and reply, we’re already outside.

“I’m sorry, Mor,” I say miserably as we trudge through the muddy slush slathered across the pavement. I never learned to drive, and Tamlin and I only have one car between us anyway, so unless I want to walk the considerable distance home, I rely on Mor to drive me. Thankfully, we’re usually headed to the same places, which is great for both of us, but I still feel terrible for dragging her away from our friends so often.

“I’ve told you a thousand times, Feyre,” she replies, a paragon of patience. “You don’t have to apologise. I _understand.”_

Regardless, it doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty. I don't deserve Mor. Tamlin may not like her, but she is an exceptional friend to me, and one I'm truly not worthy of.

As we pull out of the parking lot, I finally text him back.

Feyre, 11:01pm: **On my way.**

He doesn’t reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm all for Aroace!Azriel, and I really don't have any excuse for English!Rhysand except that I could, so I did.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's kind of short, but I'll make up for it in the next one. As always, enjoy! :)

7.

Mor and I ride home in silence, and I know she’s dying to say something—either to reassure me or damn Tamlin—but for now, at least, she refrains. Maybe it’s because she knows that no matter what she says, she can do nothing to save me from the potentially disastrous scenario waiting for me at the apartment. No matter what gentle or condemning words she might be able to offer me, she can’t prevent the inevitable. So we remain silent.

One unfortunate downside to the soft quiet held between us, comfortable and mutual though it might be, is that it leaves me at the mercy of my own thoughts, and my mind soon fills with broken thoughts of Tamlin. On what he’ll say when I get home, the barbed words he’ll throw at me, the all-too-familiar expression of mingled hurt and rage on his face... and I try not to let myself entertain the thought of the very real possibility that he’ll realise what I already know: that I’m not good enough for him. Maybe I’ve broken one too many curfews, and tonight will be the night that he comes to his senses and cuts me loose. The thought makes my stomach roil, makes me queasy with abstract fear; so I turn to Mor, searching for anything to talk about, to fill the silence that has so suddenly turned horrible and stagnant. 

Before I know what I’m saying, before I can filter my poisonous thoughts, I blurt, “I hope he’s not too upset with me.”

I try to make a habit of abiding Tamlin’s curfews, not wanting to give him any reason to feel stressed out. But more and more lately, where I was once met with worry and relief upon my arrival (whether I return late or not), I’m now greeted with anger and indignation—an insistence that I don’t love or appreciate him enough to do something as simple as getting home on time. It’s the latter that I dread encountering when I arrive. 

Mor’s features darken, a cloud of anger passing over her face. “There is nothing wrong with what you’re doing, Feyre," she insists. "He needs to understand that you need space. You’re not his pet.” 

“He knows that,” I argue, though I don’t sound very convincing in my rebuttal, even to my own ears. “Besides, I have no right to fault him for it—not after what happened to Sienna.” 

Sighing, Mor concedes, “I understand. That would change  _ anyone, _ but it still doesn’t excuse the way he treats you. He treats you like… property.” She grimaces, her voice dripping with disdain. “It’s not right. You know I’ll support you no matter what you do; it’s your life, at the end of the day—your choice. But I also want you to know that his anxiety, his anger, isn’t your fault."

_ But it is,  _ I think sadly.  _ I should be more understanding. _ He told me what happened to his last girlfriend, his first love; so I understand his trepidation, his fear for my safety, even in laughably safe circumstances. To be this ungrateful for his care, knowing what he’s been through… it’s despicable of me. 

Mor sees my wretched thoughts swimming just beneath the surface: the guilt, the self-loathing, the battle between what I want and what Tamlin needs. Without taking her eyes off of the road, she releases the steering wheel and places a soft, winter-chilled hand over my own, stilling their trembling. Her touch is grounding, calming as she holds my hands just tightly enough to stop them from shaking. “Just know that you are your own woman,” she says soothingly, “and that it has  _ never _ been an issue of choice. You’re allowed to love him and love us at the same time, Feyre. You’re not betraying him, or us.” 

_ Betrayal.  _ I am thoroughly sick of hearing that word—both in my mind and out loud—sick of feeling it in every bone in my body, in every part of my life. My tattooed hand is another unwelcome reminder of the unarguable truth of that feeling. 

But Mor’s words lend me a modicum of comfort, especially knowing what I’ll be facing tonight. “Thank you.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times,” she says with a wry smile, her expression incongruent with the morose nature of our conversation. “You never have to thank me. It’s what I’m here for.”

 

8.

After a hasty departure from Mor’s car and a frantic climb up eight flights of stairs, I slip in the door of the apartment and close it gently behind me, taking in great, heaving gulps of air. As I try to catch my breath, I brace myself for another useless argument, only extending my hope far enough to wish for it to end quickly so I can go to bed. In recent weeks, I’ve found myself feeling unusually tired, and I’m looking forward to getting some much-needed rest. 

But Tamlin isn’t there. Typically, when I return home late, he’s waiting for me at the front door, words of profound relief or harsh accusations poised on the tip of his tongue, but he’s nowhere in sight. Confused and perhaps a bit hopeful, I check the kitchen, the sitting room, the washroom… but my search yields nothing. My lips curl into a small smile, the smug, hopeful kind donned only by the truly naive. 

_ Maybe he’s not home yet. _ Though he’s rarely out this late, it could be that I arrived home before he did, if he and Lucien are catching up. When they get going, he and his closest friend can talk for hours, sometimes so late into the night that day sneaks up on them. 

But if that’s the case, how could he have known that I wasn't home yet when he texted me? Something isn’t adding up. 

Even though Tamlin’s absence is a mystery still unsolved, exhaustion finally catches up with me, making my eyelids heavy and turning my thoughts sluggish. I figure that I can think on this just as well from the comfort of a warm bed as I can standing in the kitchen, dripping half-melted snow onto the clean tiles. 

But when I go to open his bedroom door, I find it locked, the doorknob not budging when I try to twist it. My first thought is that maybe it’s stuck—my own bedroom door is a particularly petulant piece of furniture, sometimes requiring brute force to wrench it open when it won’t part with the door frame. But upon trying the unyielding handle once more, all of my foolish theories dissolve as surely as any hope I had the audacity to harbour.  _ He locked me out.  _

Irritated, I pound on the door, not bothering to mask my annoyance with each rap. 

“Tamlin, what the hell? Let me in!” There have been nights where he has gone to sleep angry with me, and even some where he made me sleep alone as punishment, but never without a fight. Never, in all of the time that I’ve known him, has he shut me out without a discussion, one-sided or not. Somehow, this is worse than being yelled at. 

“I’m sorry I was late,” I say, and mean it. “Please let me in.” Even though I know that he’s mad at me, I still crave the feeling of his arms around me, of being cradled to his chest and lulled to sleep by the sound of his breathing. I don’t want to spend another night alone, as much as I want to deny it. 

“Please,” I utter one last time, too softly for him to possibly hear. 

A muted, muffled sound reaches my ears, and hope rises in my chest, even though I can’t make out what he said. 

“Sorry?” Maybe he locked the door without thinking and fell asleep before he realised his mistake.

I should have known better.

“I said,  _ no, _ ” comes his sleep-dampened growl. My heart deflates, and I turn away from his room so suddenly that I almost miss his next words, unnecessary though they might be. “Now go away.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but I have no fight in me, anyway. 

Defeated, I sigh and retreat to my own room, pure, unadulterated exhaustion bearing down on me, finding a home in the empty cavity in my chest where, up until a moment ago, there was hope. 


	7. Chapter 7

9.

As I wipe down a recently vacated table, soaking up a splash of tea and frowning at the mess that its two most recent occupants left behind, I notice Alis doing the same—visibly exhausted as she scrubs vigorously at a coffee stain on the serving counter. I curse the lazy bastards who take their “sick days” in the middle of the holiday season. Alis should not be the one bussing tables at the end of a long workday.

Frowning, I put down the abused rag I’m using and go over to her. “Why don’t you go ahead home?” I offer. “I’ll close up.” Alis quirks a brow at me, visibly amused, no doubt acknowledging the absurdity of her employee giving her boss the night off, as opposed to the other way around. “It’s not long until closing—I’ll be fine.” After a moment of consideration, she nods, chuckling softly, then kisses my cheek and heads to the staff room to pack up. If anyone deserves a night off, if anyone deserves an early reprieve from work when business is this hectic, it’s Alis.

Bloomsbury closes in just over an hour, and the sun has already started descending, the world taking its last breath of daylight before low-burning red washes away clear, wintry blue. The snow blazes bright with the last remnants of sunshine, and the wispy clouds take on an orange hue as they scud across the shifting sky.

The café is nearly empty at this hour, but there are still a few stragglers—mostly students, I notice—sipping highly-caffeinated drinks and poring over enormous textbooks.

Suddenly, a herd of them shove through the door all at once, bringing with them a gust of bone-chilling winter air. A few teenagers sitting by the front of the café shoot glares in their direction, and I clamp my lips together to keep from laughing, even as I shiver from the cold. Laughing and chatting animatedly, they claim a large table far from the door and its draughts. Despite finals being right around the corner—as I well remember—they are merry and cheerful as they converse with each other and myself, and the tip jar is considerably fuller by the time I finish pouring the last drink.

Once the last happy student has collected their reasonably complicated order, I breathe a small sigh of relief and turn to tidy up any mess I might have made in the sudden chaos. Halfway into mopping up a small puddle of spilt milk, I hear a quiet cough from behind me. I didn’t hear anyone else come in when I was serving the sudden rush of customers, so it’s with a shock that, as I turn to face the counter, I find myself staring into a pair of smiling violet eyes.

“Hello, Feyre darling,” Rhys purrs, his lyrical accent flowing rather pleasantly over my name. Goosebumps crawl up my arms, undoubtedly as a result of the unwelcome cold.

“Hey,” I reply, returning his smile. “How’s it going?”

“Quite well, thank you, despite this bloody cold. I don’t remember it being quite this bad, though I suppose it’s been a while.” He shudders. I don’t know much about England or its climate, so I cannot say whether winter as he knows it is any worse than this; but it is unquestionably freezing here, even for native residents, so I don’t envy him his rediscovery of Prythian this season.

Unsure as to why I feel inclined to, I attempt to come up with a clever response. “Well, you can’t go wrong with layers and body heat.” His lips curve into a plainly amused smirk the moment I finish speaking, and I realise what I said a moment too late. But I go on before he can comment on my thoughtless choice of words, or the blush staining my cheeks. “So, what can I get for you?”

Peering behind me, he cocks an eyebrow at the large chalkboard upon which our seasonal drinks are written in looping red and green chalk. He bites his lip, and it makes him look so boyish that I almost laugh aloud. But that would be unprofessional—and mortifying—so I quell the urge.

After a minute of unhurried perusing, he turns back to me and orders a sugary, obnoxiously festive drink with an unnecessarily long name. This time, I fail to hide my smile.

“What?” he demands, feigning offence. “Let me guess: you assumed I’d order black coffee. Or tea,” he adds with a knowing smile. Truthfully, that’s exactly what I presumed, but I’m not going to admit it. So I merely name the price and take the proffered money a moment later.

As I mix his drink, I hear him begin to whistle a familiar Christmas tune. I can’t tell what it is over the drone of the coffee machine, but it sounds nice all the same, and I quietly hum along, stirring in time with the music.

With a flourish, I stick a candy cane into the creamy, eggnog-flavoured drink, and I try not to laugh as I appraise my work. I would never have expected this dark, mysterious man to order this hideously sweet concoction; another reminder to abstain from judging books by their covers. Or from their choice of beverage, I suppose with a private, silly smile.

Donning a cheesy grin, I chirp, “Here you go!” in my most saccharine customer-service voice, gripping the mug in my good, unbandaged hand and placing it carefully on the counter. My obnoxiously festive attitude seems to have the desired effect, and I’m nearly struck dumb by his brilliant smile.

“Thank you, darling,” he replies smoothly, and my heart momentarily switches places with my stomach. Forcing myself into a state of relative composure, I somehow find it in me to stop gawking at him, redirecting my attention to his arm and watching as he reaches for the piping hot drink. But when his hand unfurls to grab the handle, I do a stunned, terrified double take. My heart stops dead in my chest as a damnably familiar onyx eye stares back at me from the centre of his outstretched hand. It’s all I can do not to gasp out loud.

My shock must be written all over my face, because he clearly notices my alarm, his brows drawing together in concern.

“Feyre, are you alright?” He scans my face as if he can read the answer to his question in my widened eyes.

“I’m fine,” I say too quickly, my chest constricting. “Enjoy your drink!” Before he can respond, bewilderment written all over his face, I dash into the staff room where— _thank god_ —Alis still sits, a large book propped open in her lap.

“Alis—” I splutter, but she cuts me off with a wave of her hand. A small, pleased smile blooms on her face.

“You found them, didn’t you?” My panicked expression evidently speaks for itself.

Rhys. _Rhys_ is my soulmate. Mor’s _cousin._ Does he know? Do I have to tell him? How am I supposed to act around him now? I try not to let my fear swallow me whole, taking deep breaths and trying to loosen some of the tightness in my chest.

“Alis…” I explain the situation to her: that he’s newly moved here, that I’ve already met him, as well as the fact that he’s my closest friend’s cousin. And despite every instinct telling me I shouldn’t, I confess to her that I may feel… something towards him. Not attraction—because it _can't_ be attraction. I assure myself that it’s probably some sick byproduct of whatever magic ties us together. But it doesn’t matter what it is, and it’s absolutely disgraceful of me to humour these feelings, to give them any consideration whatsoever when I’m Tamlin’s girlfriend. When I _love_ Tamlin. I violently shove away these ridiculous thoughts, my turbulent mind making no more room for them.

“Do you want my advice?” she asks, as straightforwardly as usual. “You still don’t have to do a thing about it. No, not even let him know—that’s _your_ decision, and yours alone. But given that you already know him and will likely be spending more time with him, you might try to get to know him. There’s no harm in doing that, at least.” She takes in my guilt-ridden expression and lays her dark, weathered hand on my shoulder. “You’re not betraying anyone, Feyre,” she says slowly, enunciating every word, “especially if divulging this to someone would put you in harm’s way.” Out of everyone in my life, Alis is the only one who never passes comment on my relationship with Tamlin. But I have no doubt that she knows—or infers—most of what goes on behind closed doors. She knows what it would mean for me if he found out about this tattoo. It would ruin _everything,_ including Tamlin himself.

She looks back into my eyes. “These are forces far beyond our control, Feyre. This is merely a bond that connects the two of you; if neither of you chooses to act upon it, then it remains that, and nothing more.” She squeezes my shoulder, smiling reassuringly.

 _Get to know him._ I can do that. I think.

Nodding resolutely, I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and go back out into the café. I spot Rhys immediately—he’s sitting at my table, a book in one hand, his drink in the other. Before I lose whatever modicum of courage I managed to rally during my conversation with Alis, I make my way over to him and tap him on the shoulder.

Placing his book face-down, he turns to look at me, and upon seeing me standing there trying not to look nervous, his mouth curves into a decidedly disarming grin. It only serves to accelerate my rapidly beating heart.

“Hello again.” I curse my flaming cheeks, and as I search for something to say, I curse myself again for not taking a moment to prepare a topic of conversation before rushing over. So, I settle for an easy question.

“How’s your drink?” I finally ask, resisting the urge to look at his hands, folded neatly in his lap. Seeing his tattoo would only make me more anxious.

He seems to ponder the question for a moment before replying, “Very good. And it goes well with the book.” Surreptitiously, I peer over his shoulder, trying to get a peek at the cover. I recognise the title immediately as a book I’ve read, and one that I enjoyed immensely.

Noticing my stare, he asks, “Have you read it?”

“Yeah,” I reply, “and I really liked it. It’s a great series.” Happy that the conversation has so quickly shifted onto familiar ground, I continue. “Did you know that she has another series? I forget what it’s called, but it’s next on my list.”

His eyes twinkle. _“Those_ ones, I’ve read. They’re quite good.” He flashes me another heart-rending smile, and it leaves me wondering if he's fully aware of the effect they have on me. Maddeningly, I suspect he does, and it does not make my mission any easier.

“So, what brought you over here?” he inquires. “Other than the view, of course.” I roll my eyes, knowing full well that he isn’t referring to the snowy winter scene on the other side of the window.

“I’ll have you know,” I counter, with more self-assurance than I knew I possess, “that you’re sitting at _my_ table. I just thought I’d inform you.”

“Oh?” His mouth splits into a feline grin and he cocks his head at me. A challenge. “Well then, I suppose we’ll have to share it.” He waves a hand at the empty chair across from him, and I almost sit down before I realise that I came here with a purpose. And that I’m still working.

Gathering every last vestige of courage I have, I say, “Aside from the fact that _that’s_ never going to happen, I actually wanted to offer my services as tour guide, should you need one. There are some great places in the city, and I happen to know all of its secrets.” I attempt a conspiratorial smile, hoping it belies the frantic state of my mind; and as my racing heart begins to calm down, I dig a pen out of the pocket of my apron and scribble my phone number on a relatively clean napkin. “If you ever need it.”

“Thank you, Feyre darling. I might very well take you up on that. It’s been awhile since I’ve had the chance to properly get to know my hometown, and I’d be a fool to reject the offer of a proper tour guide. Especially one as lovely as yourself,” he adds, sounding perfectly sincere despite his flirtatious smirk. I beat down the threat of another blush, hating myself for my reaction.

“I’ve got to go, but it was nice seeing you again.” I force myself to meet his startlingly violet eyes, which are, indeed, just as violet in the bright light of the café as they were in the dimness of the bar. “I’ll probably see you again soon, anyway.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he replies with a soft chuckle. With that, I turn and head back to the counter. “Just so you know,” he adds before I’m out of earshot, “this is one of the best drinks I’ve had all winter, and the coffee I got the last time I was here was spectacular, too.” His voice does something amazing to the English language, I think against my will, his soft accent pouring over each syllable like warm honey.

Looking over my shoulder, I grin, somehow feeling as though he was complimenting me, personally, as opposed to commenting on the quality of our drinks. I allow myself to enjoy the flattery.

“I’m glad you like it.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I'm sorry this one's a week late - I just moved houses, and it's been really hectic and I haven't had the time (or the internet access) to post this one yet. So, here's the chapter you deserved last week, and you get another one tomorrow (as usual). Love you guys, and I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> P.s., I've included a few nods to some of the dialogue from A Court of Mist and Fury, and I take absolutely no credit for those lines.

10.

The café has completely cleared out by the time my shift ends—most of my coworkers not having deigned to show up in the first place, and the rest of the customers having gone home about ten minutes before closing, Rhys among them. My eyes linger on the newly vacated table, nary a crumb or a drop of drink left as evidence of his presence. 

_ I suppose we’ll have to share it.  _ Over my dead body. And I’ll tell him so—I let out an involuntary huff of laughter, glad no one’s around to hear it. But as I begin wiping down tables, as I track the movement of my naked, tattooed hand as it aimlessly pushes around the soapy cloth, any pleasant thoughts I might be having about Rhys dry up, replaced by the image of that onyx eye and a steady, incessant beat of  _ soulmate, soulmate, soulmate _ resonating through my tired mind. And then, more aggressively,  _ traitor, traitor,  _ **_traitor_ ** _.  _

I hurriedly finish cleaning, re-wrap my hand in clean gauze, and leave Bloomsbury’s, not once looking back at the— _ my _ table.

Since I couldn’t check my messages at all while I was at work, I reluctantly decide that it's probably a good idea to do so before I get back to the apartment, so I gingerly pull my phone out of my jacket pocket, my bare fingers freezing in the bitter cold as I unlock the screen. As I anticipated, a plethora of messages sit waiting for me, despite the fact that Tamlin knows that I’ve been working all day and haven’t been able to look at my phone until now. My sigh is a white cloud in the lamp-lit darkness. 

Tamlin, 10:42am:  **I’m sorry.**

Tamlin, 11:29am:  **I’m so sorry, Feyre. I shouldn’t have shut you out.**

Tamlin, 11:34am:  **Feyre, please.**

Tamlin, 1:01pm:  **Feyre, please. I’m sorry.**

Tamlin, 2:33pm:  **Why aren’t you answering me?**

Tamlin, 2:45pm:  **Feyre, this is ridiculous.**

Tamlin, 3:01pm:  **Stop being childish. I have to go to a meeting, but I’ll talk to you later.**

Tamlin, 5:54pm:  **Why haven’t you answered me?**

Tamlin, 5:55pm:  **Just come home. The cafe can survive without you.**

Tamlin, 6:23pm:  **Where are you? Come home so we can talk about this.**

Tamlin, 7:15pm:  **Fine. Don’t answer.**

Tamlin, 7:59pm:  **Ok, I’m sorry. Please come home now. You’ve made your point.**

I feel nauseated as I read through them, and delete them all immediately. At what point had the simple act of opening my phone turned into a source of such anxiety? 

_ You’re overreacting, _ murmurs a quiet, snide voice in the back of my head. 

_ I know, _ I respond silently, releasing another resigned sigh and stuffing my phone back into my pocket with more force than strictly necessary. Rubbing some heat into my frozen hands, I quicken my pace. 

But before I’ve even left the plaza, my phone vibrates again. 

Tamlin, 8:12pm:  **Why aren’t you home yet? I know your shift ended at 8. Come home now.**

I don’t bother texting him back—I’d be home soon enough, and there would be no point in reminding him that I’m not allowed to text at work, and that I’m not fortunate enough to be able to miss a shift or leave early.  _ The cafe can survive without you.  _ Maybe, but I certainly can't survive without the café. Not on my own.

The conversation that I know awaits me at the apartment is a sickeningly familiar one, and I already know exactly how it will go. But this time, I resolve to be more assertive. Tamlin worries about me, and I understand why, but Mor is right—I have my own needs, and I’m tired of having them routinely dismissed to accommodate his anxiety. Space, privacy, time to spend with friends, the assurance that he won’t be angry with me every time I come home from a night out, late or not. I don’t think that these are irrational requests, and I’m sure he’ll see my point of view. Eventually. He says that he cares about my happiness, and this… this will make me happy. I hope that will be enough. He loves me, after all. A feeling that I’m, admittedly, still unaccustomed to, even after all this time. 

Before Tamlin was a part of my life, I was in a place where I felt truly, objectively unloveable—someone who was disposable, not worthy of anyone’s attention unless I was the butt of their joke. When he confessed that he had fallen for me, that loneliness no longer felt quite so painful, and the hole in my heart that it had created had filled instead with his love. He made me feel valuable, wanted, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to repay him for giving me the gift of those incomparable feelings. 

But I love my friends, too. It’s a different kind of love, to be sure, but it is strong, unwavering, and precious. And, to my constant surprise, reciprocated. I have no intention of letting go of them—not because Tamlin thinks that my love for them somehow eclipses my love for him, because that simply isn't true. I value my friends with my whole heart, and I have come to know that the feeling is mutual, but secretly, I fear that if I abandon them for Tamlin, they, in turn, will abandon me. Up until I met them in university, I had no experience with the kind of friendship that they’ve shown me, and I would sooner sell my soul than return to a time when they weren’t a part of my life. 

High school was, to put it plainly, six years of acute torture where cruelty was currency, it seemed. Back then, there was no shortage of things for popular, wealthy girls to taunt me about. I was tormented for my Salvation Army wardrobe, my scrawny, malnourished body with no womanly curves to speak of, my generally lacklustre appearance—to the people who mattered, I had few likeable traits. They’d take what food I could afford to bring to school and throw it in the trash without so much as a backwards glance, not realising that because of them, I wouldn’t be eating again until the following day. They tripped me in the halls, they made a sadistic game out of shoving me into lockers, and they didn't even bother whispering behind my back—instead telling me straight to my face exactly what horrible things they thought about me. 

They took particular pleasure in shutting me in empty lockers—my skinny, light body making it much too easy for them—and they’d just leave me there, banging futilely on the door until a teacher or a janitor heard me and cut the lock, sometimes only after a few hours trapped inside. During that miserable stretch of time, I very rapidly developed a fear of enclosed spaces, as well as the knowledge that I was not someone that people wasted their time with—I was not someone who could be loved. 

So when I met Mor in university, I was understandably wary when she expressed interest in being my friend—especially when I was so cold and distant with her, suspicious of her sweet disposition and her insistence that she genuinely liked me, that she wanted to spend time with me. My incredulity only increased when she chose to introduce me to her friends—even more so when they immediately accepted me as one of their own, treating me like I was a welcome addition to their company. And just like that, her group of friends became my group of friends. Still, it shocks me from time to time, and I would go down swinging to protect that precious, incredible part of my life. 

Thinking back on how far I’ve come, on what I truly have to lose if I don’t confront Tamlin, strengthens my resolve. By the time I reach the apartment building, my face flushed red with the sting of cold and memory, I know what I must do, what I must say. 

I will not be made to choose. 

 

11.

 

Bloomsbury isn't a far walk from our apartment, which is fantastically convenient, since I harbour no particular fondness for taking the bus. Though, the cold weather makes these frequent journeys to and from work slightly less pleasant, to say the least. So it is with a breath of relief that I finally enter the apartment and close the door behind me. I yelp in alarm when I catch sight of Tamlin barrelling towards me, my body going rigid, and he pulls me into a tight embrace once he reaches me, which I return once I master my surprise.

“Feyre, I’m so sorry about last night. I never should have locked you out.” As usual, his apology is heartbreakingly genuine, and I desperately want to utter the magic words,  _ I forgive you,  _ and end the fight before it begins. But I bite them back just as they are about to leave my mouth. This time, I need to be heard. 

“Tamlin,” I begin, steadying my voice as I take off my coat and boots, “this isn’t fair to me.” His mouth opens as if he’s about to interrupt, but I give him a warning look and plow on, walking to the kitchen and fighting to calm my erratic heartbeat. “I miss my friends. I know you and Mor don’t see eye to eye, but she’s my best friend, and I don’t think it’s fair that you get to dictate when I’m allowed to see her. I miss my friends,” I repeat, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. 

“Feyre,” he says softly, coaxingly, in a voice designed to soothe, to avoid confrontation at all costs. “You know that I love you, right? I just don’t think she’s good for you. I’m sure you’re not missing much when you’re at home instead of off gallivanting with her and her lot.” I’m glad my back is turned so he can’t see the hurt in my eyes, the anger from the callousness with which he insults my friends. “Besides, there’s so much for you to do here: you can paint, watch movies, you can read—I’m sure that you could find plenty of things to do if you took the time to find out.” Sometime during his rebuttal, his voice morphed from coaxing to condescending, and it sets my blood to boiling. 

“That’s not the point, Tamlin.” I’m on the verge of outright growling, but that would get me nowhere in a hurry. So for me, for  _ us _ , I make myself turn around and be completely, perfectly honest with him. 

“I can’t… I can’t live my life cloistered in the apartment day and night. I can’t live with that… suffocation. Just give me some space—let me spend time with my friends.”

“I’m just trying to keep you safe, Feyre,” he replies, irritation leaking into the forced softness of his tone.

“I know. But…” I meet his emerald green eyes, and try not to balk from the intensity of his stare. “I can take care of myself. My friends are good people, and they’ll—“

“Her friends were  _ good people  _ too,” he snaps. “That didn’t stop her from getting shot in the middle of the subway platform.” Behind the hard, obstinate look in his eyes, I recognise the leagues of profound grief for his lost love. “I just want to make sure you’re safe,” he repeats, his tone gentling again as he looks down at his hands, “and I can’t keep you safe when you’re off by yourself.” I open my mouth to interject that I’m not  _ really _ by myself, but he holds up a hand to cut me off and continues as if I hadn’t tried to speak. “I don’t trust Mor,” he says simply, and I hear the unspoken second part of that statement:  _ end of discussion _ . 

And I snap back.

“Then date someone who can put up with this.”

Nothing. No reaction. Just a slight tensing in his shoulders. Then, lifting his head slowly to face me fully, he narrows his eyes and says with dangerous calm, “Do you not want to be with me, then?”

This is going all wrong. This isn’t what I wanted at all. I just… “Of course I do.  _ Of course I do.”  _ A frustrated tear slips down my cheek as I say, “But you… Tamlin… I’m drowning.” I choke on the word. “I am  _ drowning. _ And the more you do this, the more you cut me off from everyone… You might as well be shoving my head under the water.” 

He doesn’t so much as blink as I confess exactly how I’m feeling—how I’ve been feeling for some time now, though I’ve been far too cowardly to admit it. 

Then, without a word, he walks swiftly to his room and slams the door behind him. I jump as the sound of something shattering fills the tense silence. Crashing noises ring through the otherwise quiet apartment for a few agonising minutes, and I wonder just what he’s destroying in his rage. Then, as swiftly and as violently as it began, silence washes everything away. 

Despite every instinct in my body telling me not to, I tiptoe up to the door and press my ear against it, listening for the sound of movement and hoping he didn’t hurt himself in his fury. Just loud enough to be heard, I murmur, “Tam? Are you alright?” 

I wrap my hand around the doorknob, prepared to go in and check on him—

I cry out as something hits me— _ hard _ —and I’m thrown backwards, knocked to the floor as the bedroom door whips open. Stars flash before my eyes, and my breath comes in quick, short gasps as I lift a shaking hand to my head—pain shoots through me as I come into contact with a long, deep cut across my forehead. 

Faster than I thought possible, Tamlin rushes over to stand imposingly in front of me, breathing hard, and in this charged moment, his shadow morphs into the slender, sneering forms of those young girls. The darkness clouding my vision is once again the impenetrable blackness inside a closed locker, and I can smell the tang of metal and hear their cruel, feminine laughter…

I shy away from him, pulling my knees to my chest as I try to calm my shaking. Spots still dance in my vision and I hear a violent, shuddering sob before Tamlin drops to his knees next to me. But when he reaches out a hand for me, I jerk away. 

“Feyre,” he whispers, but I curl tighter in on myself, trembling. “Feyre, please.” But I can’t. I can’t look at him, can’t look at his face as he cries over me, for what he’s done to me. And I realise… this fear… I’m afraid of  _ him.  _ I’ve never been afraid of Tamlin before, but his obsessive control, the endless messages, these angry outbursts and he… he hurt me. A tremor wracks my already-shaking body, and I flinch when he lays a hand on me. But I don’t have the strength to move away. 

“Feyre,” he moans, squeezing my arm.  _ “Please. Please.” _

Even in my terrified state, my heart cracks at the desperation in his voice. I force myself to take a deep, ragged breath and, after a few agonisingly long moments, I let myself slowly uncurl, holding my bandaged hand to my split forehead, wincing. I’m not sure how bad the cut is, but when I draw my hand away, the white gauze comes away red with blood. He holds my face in his hands, staring desolately at me. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

I want to crawl far, far away from his touch, which has so suddenly become unbearable; but I can’t make myself move.

I’m still shaking, my skin feeling at once feverishly hot and ice-cold.  

“I’ll try,” he pledges. “I’ll try to be better. I don’t…” he struggles to collect himself. “I can’t control it sometimes. The worry. Last night was just… last night was bad. When you didn’t come home, I just—let’s forget it, let’s just move past it. Please.” 

His voice is raw with emotion, and it’s enough of a broken plea that I force myself not to struggle when he gathers me in his arms. He buries his face in the nape of my neck, breathing apologies into my skin in a steady, dissonant chorus of  _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. _ “I couldn’t save her before. I couldn’t protect her from that man. And when you said that, about… about me drowning you…” He cuts himself off, sobbing into my shirt, dropping strangled apologies with every tear. 

I want to tell him that it’s ok, that I forgive him, but… I spoke with my heart. No matter how much I wish to heal this wound, I can’t—I won’t revoke this truth.

“I’ll try to be better,” he repeats, tear-filled eyes gazing into my own. “Please—give me more time. Let me… let me get through this. Please.”

_Get through what?_ I want to ask. His anxiety? His grief? But I don’t have the energy. He wants answers that I don’t have; so, instead, I find one more ounce of strength and drape my limp arms around him, because words have utterly failed me. And I have utterly failed him, once more. 

But I have nothing left to give—not today. So when he finally releases me and silently tends to my wound, I retreat to my own bedroom for the night. He doesn’t stop me.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's your bonus chapter, since I missed one last week. I hope you guys enjoy!

12.

I sit before a blank canvas, trying in vain to think of something— _anything —_to paint. My brush hovers over an untouched palette, but I can't make myself choose a colour, instead letting the paintbrush drop back into my lap and staring defeatedly at my useless, uninspired hands. Usually, I have so many colours and images crowding my mind that there aren’t enough canvases in the world—let alone my little room—that could possibly contain them all. But today… I just can’t find the inspiration.

The dark cat’s eye peers up at me from my unfurled palm—the sole witness to my frustration. The simple design in all its elegance is infinitely more beautiful than the unmarred canvas in front of me, and its alluring obsidian stare mocks me. Grinding my teeth, I clench my hands into fists, blocking its judgment from sight. Instead, I begrudgingly put away my supplies, trying not to let the itch of frustration consume me, and pick up the book that I’ve been midway through for too long. It’s an easy read, an idyllic world to lose myself in—somewhere I can go to escape the chaos in my very real world, at least for a short time.

Minutes or hours later—I’m not sure—my phone vibrates. My heart stutters reflexively, my mind immediately conjuring images of an unhappy Tamlin, and I chastise myself for being ridiculous.

Mor, 8:28pm: **Hey, are you free tonight?**

 _Yes,_ I want to reply, but she and I both know it isn’t as simple as that.

Tamlin isn't home, so I call him quickly, asking if it’s alright with him. True to his word, he has been a lot more lenient with me since our argument—I lift a hand to prod gently at my forehead, where the cut is still tender—but I ask anyway. No use in making anything worse. To my relief, he agrees straightaway, as long as I’m home by midnight.

Feyre, 8:30pm: **Yeah, I’m free**

Mor, 8:31pm: **Great! I’ll swing by in ten**

I snort—just like Mor to leave me a scant ten minutes to get ready. Not everyone has the luxury of being as effortlessly stunning as she is. Tearing through my closet, I hastily select a few items and throw them in a heap onto my bed. After a moment’s deliberation, I pull on the new blue sweater that I haven’t yet gotten the chance to wear, thinking of the dreadful cold, and shimmy into a pair of warm black leggings, tucking my feet into fluffy socks and my worn combat boots.  

I bless my foresight as I toss my hair over my shoulder and begin taking it out of its braid, letting my still-damp hair fall in soft waves around my face. The doorbell rings just as I’m applying a nude pink lipstick, and I hurriedly shove it into my purse and grab my coat before rushing out the door.

Mor looks me up and down, whistling and wiggling her eyebrows when I step outside. “You certainly clean up nice.” I snort, rolling my eyes affectionately, and look down at my outfit. My new knit sweater is certainly lovely, the heathered blue colour matching my eyes and making my skin look deceptively pink and healthy; but I don’t hold a candle to Mor, whose red, slim-fitting dress—though unsuited to the nagging chill of the season—gives her the look of a queen, her blonde hair shining golden as it cascades down her back.

But when her keen eyes land on my forehead, at my unsuccessful attempt to cover the gash with makeup and a few stray locks of hair, her features darken, her chocolate-brown eyes smouldering.

“What the hell happened to your head?” She makes no attempt to mask how livid she is, and I know that she suspects Tamlin ( _rightfully so,_ comes the unasked-for opinion from the back of my mind); but I can’t come up with a good enough lie, so I hedge the question.

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” I deadpan, silently begging her, _Leave it alone, please._ This is a conversation I don't have the energy to have, no matter how badly I need—want someone to confide in. Though she doesn’t look particularly happy about it, Mor bites back any further comments, her eyes only flicking up once more before she loops my arm through hers and drags me down the stairs and into the freezing night.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” she sings as she herds me into the car, not even giving me a moment to catch my breath after hurtling down eight flights of stairs, before she starts the engine and swings out of the parking lot.

“Let me guess,” I drawl. “Cassian and Nesta finally got over themselves and got together.” Stubborn as mules, the two of them.

“I’m not telling,” she croons, and to my chagrin, she doesn’t respond to any of my hopeful guesses or leading questions until we pull into Rita’s parking lot.

Only, we aren’t at Rita’s.

“Surprise!”

 

13. 

This _definitely_ isn’t Rita’s.

“It’s Azriel’s birthday,” she reminds me as I gawk at the unfamiliar restaurant, “so I thought we could surprise him by taking him somewhere fancy. You know,” she smiles, affection shining in her eyes, “to show him how much we love him.” I curse myself to hell and back for forgetting. I didn’t get him anything, not even a card…

“We’re all splitting the cost of his dinner, and we got him a new kitchen mixer,” Mor supplies, reading me as easily as she would one of her many harlequin romance novels. When I meet her eyes, she grins—I have no trouble guessing whose brilliant idea this gift was. “The one he has is _ancient_ , and he complains about it constantly. Honestly, it’s all he talks about.” She shakes her head, the effect of her feigned annoyance diminished by the giant smile plastered on her face, and I laugh under my breath. “All to say,” she continues, “you have nothing to worry about. We all pitched in to pay for it, which is why I ‘borrowed’ thirty dollars from you a few weeks ago.” I have no doubt that my contribution was significantly smaller than the others’. But Mor knows my situation—she knows what I can and can’t afford—and I've never once been made to feel guilty about it, by her or anyone else in our group. Another thing to be grateful for.

“Thank you,” I say, giving her a relieved smile, and she waves me off, instead shouting, “Come on!” as she springs out of the car.

I follow her, hanging back a moment to put my coat on. But the walk to the front door is short, and we’re through them before the insidious cold has even caught up to us. 

Like Rita’s, this restaurant is kept comfortably warm—I notice a few fireplaces set into the stone walls, burning merrily—and my coat is hastily whisked away by a charming hostess who grins at us and greets Mor like an old friend.

“This way.” she inclines her head toward a large, round table draped with a white tablecloth. Six identical sets of shining silverware are positioned around it, glinting in the light of the three candles burning in the centre of the table. The seats are—surprisingly—not unlike those at Bloomsbury’s, except that these are ornate, velvet thrones in comparison to the café’s cosy, well-loved armchairs.

Neither Cassian nor Azriel have arrived yet, and I imagine the former is intentionally detaining the latter; but Rhys is there, lounging comfortably in one of the luxurious chairs, his back facing us as we stride up to the table. At first glance, he appears to be daydreaming—staring down at his lap, lost in thought; but I'm not fooled, and immediately recognise his curved posture as the one adopted by those wishing to read discreetly in public. I’m well acquainted with it.

I smirk and creep silently up to the back of his chair, leaning in close to his ear to murmur, “How’s the book?”

I’m rewarded with a small, nearly undetectable tensing in his shoulders—a successful startle all the same. Chuckling, I come around to face him, and he lifts an arched brow. His stunning eyes flick up to my forehead, then down to my newly-wrapped hand, and I keep my face blank. But he doesn’t comment on either, likely remembering my hesitance to go into detail about my injuries in the past.

He smirks. “Resorting to scaring people for fun, are we? And here I was thinking you were better than that, Feyre.”

I forgot about his soft, lilting accent, and my heart stumbles a beat in surprise. As if in response, my left hand pulses once, twice, and I try to ignore the now-familiar echo of _soulmate, soulmate,_ resonating in my head, instead giving him a smug smile.

“I couldn’t resist,” I say simply, shrugging a shoulder.

“You know I’ll have to get you back for that, darling.” His eyes crinkle endearingly at the corners, and a feline smile spreads across his face. I accept the challenge, cocking my head and ignoring the pleasant chill that snakes down my spine as I meet his daring expression.

“I’d _never_ let myself get caught reading in public. It’s not my fault you’re a rookie.”

He scoffs. “A _rookie?”_

“Children, play nice,” Mor cuts in smoothly, all but pushing me into the chair next to her, Rhys still feigning indignation on my right. A surprised huff leaves my lips as I hit the sumptuously plush cushion and run my hand across the decadent fabric.

I follow the movement with my eyes, back and forth, relishing the softness of the purple velvet under my fingers, and try to dissipate the worry as it begins its assault on me. This restaurant is definitely not within my usual budget, and I wonder if I even have enough money in my bank account to cover the cost of my own meal—let alone Azriel’s. _Appetisers tend to be less expensive_ , I consider, the nagging voice in the back of my head doing some good for once—I rest a bit easier now that I have some semblance of a plan, so I push away troubling thoughts of money for the moment and try, for once, to focus on enjoying myself. Or, at least, trying to distract myself.

Turning to Rhys, I ask, “What do you think of the book?”

He gives me a lazy half smile. “What book?” Indeed, while my attention had been diverted, his book had vanished. A quick glance reveals that it isn’t hiding under his chair, nor is it in his lap—it seems to have disappeared completely. When he catches me looking for it, his mischievous smile widens, but he doesn’t reveal where he’s hidden it.

“It’s great—you were right,” he says instead. “I just started the third book, and I have to say—I’m not that far into it yet, but…” he moves closer to me and whispers, “I think the snarky princess is going to end up with the brooding prince after all is said and done.” He leans back, raising his eyebrows as if to say, _Care to confirm?_ and I have to look away, stifling my giggles lest I spoil the whole series for the poor man.

Right on cue, Cassian materialises, guiding a bewildered Azriel to our table. His eyes go wide when he sees the three of us sitting together, gathered here for him.

“Surprise!” shouts Mor, jumping out of her chair and subsequently earning a few glares from nearby patrons.

“Amren will be here soon,” Cassian informs us, “but until then, you can enjoy our riveting company. Happy birthday, Az.”

“Happy birthday,” Rhys and I say in unison, and we turn to each other, sharing a surprised chuckle. Azriel, to his credit, takes a moment to roll his eyes at us before he addresses us all in his deep baritone.

“Thank you.”

Mor plants a kiss on his cheek and Cassian shoves him roughly into a chair—Azriel taking all of this attention in stride—and I think, with a soft smile, that if this isn’t the perfect embodiment of our little group, then I don’t know what is.

 

14.

It turns out to be a truly wonderful night. As Cassian foretold, Amren shows up fashionably late, hauling with her a massive box that must weigh a ton. But her face is as impassive as ever, and she doesn't seem to be struggling with it at all despite her tiny frame. She deposits the gift, wrapped with military precision, on an extra chair without even a grunt before she claims the empty seat at the head of the table.

“Hello, all,” she says in her characteristic deadpan, at once exuding boredom and establishing authority. “And many happy returns, Azriel.” He nods his head at the petite woman, his lips lifting into a small smile, before conversation begins anew.

Mercifully, I manage to make it through the whole night without having to discuss my newest wound. Neither Cassian nor Azriel pass comment, though both of them meet my eyes at some point during the evening—Cassian looking mildly taken aback, and Azriel’s eyes filling with suspicion. But I give them both a small shake of my head, and they return swiftly to the conversation. I breathe a sigh of relief each time, my hand becoming more and more clammy under the tight gauze.

Sometime between ordering our drinks and receiving them, Amren’s quicksilver eyes find the cut on my forehead. She gives me a grim, calculating look—a terrifying thing to behold—but when I remain silent for several too-long seconds, she simply looks away, not sparing it a second look, though I don’t miss the steely glint in her eyes.

Mor says nothing about either of my afflictions for the rest of the evening, respecting my silent plea from earlier—though she shoots me a thoroughly exasperated look when she catches me zeroing in on the appetisers, barely sparing a glance for anything else on the menu. She doesn’t need to say a word—her expression of concerned amusement clearly conveys her intended message: _Good god, Feyre. Treat yourself for once._ I eventually, begrudgingly, give in, though I still order one of the cheapest options. It ends up being delicious all the same.

The minute all of our plates have been cleared and I’m sure I’m full to bursting, an enormous cake is hauled out from the kitchen by a noticeably struggling waiter. One look at the masterpiece of chocolate and strawberries has me reconsidering my previous assessment, and we dig into it with little ceremony, only taking the time to serve Azriel the first and largest piece before we collectively decimate the rest.

Finally, Azriel tears open his present, ripping off the paper to reveal a sleek box depicting a giant, metallic black kitchen mixer that's clearly one of the latest models. The smile he gives us, full and bright and unrestrained, is something I won’t soon forget.

“Thank you.” The rest of us grin, and when Mor gets up to go hug him, Cassian beats her to it, enveloping his brother in a crushing bear hug. I laugh, my heart swelling with love for this incredible group of people. The happy mood is infectious, and for the first time in a while, I’m not worried about Tamlin. Tonight, I let myself celebrate with my friends, as we smile and laugh and revel in the simple joy of each other's’ company.

Taking advantage of the comfortable setting, I decide, at last, to act on Alis’s advice and start trying to get to know Rhys. Bit by bit, question by question, I try to deconstruct this enigma of a man, to see if he’s the kind of person I’d want to be friends with, soulmate or not.

It isn’t as difficult as I'd imagined it would be. He’s remarkably easy to talk to, and I find that, despite his deceptively intimidating presence, with his impeccable black clothing and aristocratic features, I feel relaxed and easy around him. Mor keeps flashing me suggestive looks and wiggling her eyebrows when Rhys isn't looking, and every time, I roll my eyes at her and endure the sharp, accompanying twinge of guilt in the pit of my stomach.

We talk mostly to each other for the entire night—to Cassian’s chagrin, which he makes rampantly clear when, a few minutes after we’ve eaten our fill of cake, he shouts at me across the table to _stop hogging his brother._ I feel bad for the other diners in the restaurant, but there doesn’t seem to be too many nearby, so I don’t trouble myself over it.

Rhys has become a constant presence in our group—no longer a shiny new addition, which, I realise in retrospect, he never was. He fits right in; these are his friends, his family, after all, and he has known them much longer than I have. And strangely, that doesn’t make me feel jealous or uncomfortable. It simply feels like he’s been here all along.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hope you enjoy! (Also, sorry...)

15.

I haven’t had a night to parallel this one in a long time, one filled with so much merriment and so little worry. So it’s unsurprising that it doesn’t last long.

After we retrieve our coats and make our way out, Amren once again balancing Azriel’s immense box in her tiny arms, I notice someone standing outside the restaurant, watching us. I squint through the falling snow, trying to get a better look, and—

I suck in a breath, the frozen air in my lungs constricting my chest. Upon catching sight of me, of my entourage, Tamlin storms towards us, the bitter wind whipping his fair hair around his face and making his livid expression appear almost manic. How had… I hadn’t told him that I wouldn't be at Rita’s tonight because, well… I hadn’t been thinking. _Shit._

“Feyre,” he snarls, emerald eyes blazing with fury, “what are you doing here?” It’s only once he’s come to a stop inches before me that he takes in my company, at which point he looks as if he’s struggling not to throttle me, his gloved hands twitching at his sides. I shrink back slightly, fear lashing through me like icy rain.

“And who the _hell_ are you?” he snarls at the men, who had, without my noticing, taken a few steps closer to me. I can feel their steady, solid presence at my back, and though it does little to dispel my panic, it warms my heart.

“Tamlin,” I begin, “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you I’d be here. I didn’t know until—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” he bellows and I stumble back, my heart picking up a frantic rhythm in my chest. Someone steadies me with their hands on my shoulders, and Mor steps in front of me to stand toe to toe with Tamlin, somehow managing to look down on him despite being more than a head shorter than he is.

“Where do you get off talking to her like that?” Mor spits. “She doesn’t belong to you. She’s allowed to do what she wants, wherever she wants, with _whomever_ she wants. So why don’t you piss off?” A braver man than Tamlin would have balked at Mor’s icy, uncompromising tone.

But to my—and everyone’s—surprise, he shoves Mor aside as if she’s as small and insignificant as I feel in this moment. Azriel lunges to catch her before she hits the snowy pavement, and is consequently charged with restraining her so that she doesn’t launch herself at Tamlin, even though he looks like he’s dying to get in a few swings himself.

“Feyre, we’re going home. Let’s go.” He and I both know that he doesn’t need to grab me. Fear colder than the air around us has already iced over the hot, scalding guilt that I’m accustomed to, and I don’t want to find out what would happen to me if I push back, having witnessed his reaction to Mor’s outrage just now.

So I give my friends a wordless apology, hoping that the darkness and the falling snow obscures their view of my face, of the abject terror I can feel burning there. Amren and Cassian take a step forward as if to protest—or in Cassian's case, to snatch me back, most likely—but I give them a look that says, _I can deal with this. Let me deal with this._ If looks could kill, Tamlin would be dead several times over from the force of Mor’s lethal glare; Cassian appears inclined to pummel Tamlin into the snow; Azriel is a living shadow in the snowy darkness with his arms wrapped around a still-struggling Mor, his face as hard as ice; Amren, though completely expressionless, is without question the most terrifying out of them all, and Tamlin seems to be looking at her with the most apprehension; and Rhys… his hands slide off of my shoulders as I take an unwilling step forward, cold lancing through me as I move away from his warmth. When I turn back one last time, he just looks at me, fury and despair limning his beautiful face, and mouths two words that I see clearly despite the frozen, snow-filled air between us.

_Fight it._

Despite how weak I feel, I nod, the words glowing bright and futile in my mind, and I let Tamlin lead me away from my friends.

 

16.

The car ride home is excruciatingly silent. I don’t dare open my mouth, knowing that anything I say will worsen this hopeless situation. Tamlin would never hurt me—at least, not on purpose—but that doesn’t mean that this will be painless for either or us.

 _Fight it._ Rhys’s parting words ring as clear as a bell through my head, but the drop of strength that they first gave me is long gone, dried up the moment I slid into the passenger seat. Now, they only serve to make me feel even weaker. How am I supposed to fight a battle that’s already been won?

I already know how this nightmare plays out, having lived it far too many times: the minute we arrive at the apartment, he’ll start hurling his accusations at me, questioning my love for him over and over again until the only words filling the space between us are o _f course I still love you,_ before he storms off to his room and slams the door in my face.

This has been our routine, what I have come to anticipate upon arriving home most nights. But tonight, given his discovery of three men who, up until tonight, he hadn't known existed… No. Tonight will be much, much worse.

I doubt I’ll ever forget the sight of his wrath at the restaurant, when he first took in Cassian and Azriel standing by my side, menacing and completely unperturbed by his surge of temper, neither flinching under his glare.  _Who the_ hell _are you?_ What will happen now that he knows that I’ve been spending time with other men? Regardless, I’m certain that it will be a long, _long_ time before I’ll be allowed to see my friends again.

 _Fight it._ But I don’t have the strength. I never do.

 

17.

We haven’t even made it through the front door before he explodes.

“I _knew_ there was a reason you liked hanging out with them so much.” The apartment door swings violently open, and I slip in behind him before it slams in my face. “I _knew_ it wasn’t just that slut—”

 _“Don’t_ —” I shout, taken aback at my own anger, “Don’t call her that.”

Tamlin, too, looks mildly surprised, but he doesn’t stop his tirade.

“You said I had _nothing_ to worry about,” he seethes, his voice raising to an incensed roar. “Do I not love you enough? Do I mean so little to you that you had to go off gallivanting with other men?” His face is contorted in feral rage, and I maintain a healthy distance between us as I bend down to unlace my boots with shaking hands.

“Tamlin,” I interject as he towers over my crouched form, “it’s not like that. They’re just friends.”

“Then _why_ ,” he fumes, “didn’t you tell me about them?”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” I admit honestly, hoping he can see the truth in my words. But he lets out a vicious snarl, and I hate myself for flinching as I rise to my feet.

“You _lied_ to me.”

I’m momentarily struck silent, those four words reverberating in my mind for longer than they should have. _You_ lied _to me._ I want to argue that I didn't lie, not really, that I was only trying to protect him— _and to protect yourself,_ I hear whispered in a dark corner of my mind— but… Tamlin is right. No matter how noble my actions were, I'm a liar. My friendship with Cassian and Azriel was kept secret from him because I wanted to avoid _this._ I _wanted_ to deceive him. My mind conjures up a hazy picture of Rhys, of a glowing obsidian tattoo kept hidden for weeks under an untainted bandage, of a single, damning word that throbs like a heartbeat in my mind, and I’ve never felt like more of a deceitful traitor in my life.

But, as I stand there listening to all of his anger and hate and vitriol, I can’t quite find it in myself to feel sorry.

“You’re not seeing them anymore,” he declares.

“That’s not fair!” I exclaim, and I hate that it comes out sounding like a plea. “I should be able to have a life outside of our relationship!” My chest constricts painfully. I can't lose my friends—Tamlin wouldn't take them away from me, not if he truly loves me.

But he looks me dead in the eye and says with cool finality, “You’re not seeing them anymore. If you do,” he enunciates, “we’re through.”

My heart drops like a stone into my stomach. He _can’t…_ finding an apartment if he kicks me out would be impossible, and I have no money, nowhere else to go. Helpless and alone, or helpless and stranded: a choiceless decision.

By the time I break out of my shocked stupor, he’s already gone, his door shut and locked between us. A strangled sob claws its way up my throat the moment I’m in the relative safety of my room, and I don’t even bother peeling off my clothes before I climb under the covers and weep, hoping my despair will wash away with the deluge of tears and wishing uselessly for a miracle.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I hope you enjoy! :)

18.

A series of loud smashing noises, followed by the sound of a door slamming, is what rouses me from a fitful sleep early the next morning. My eyes flutter open, my darkened room coming slowly into focus, and I feel the tendrils of what was a rather pleasant dream begin to slip away, disintegrating like smoke between my fingers the moment I try to hang on to it. I huff and turn over, trying halfheartedly to drift back to sleep and collect the fragmented pieces of my lost dream; but stubborn curiosity makes me roll out of bed a minute later and stagger across the room, crashing into the nightstand and tripping on an errant piece of clothing before my hand closes around the knob and I swing the door open.

The glare of the kitchen light sends sharp pain lancing through my head and stings my swollen eyes, still tender from crying, and I take a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness before looking around for the source of the tumult.

It doesn’t take me long. Lying in the middle of the floor is my phone, smashed beyond recognition. I scramble for it, distantly gratified that the phone is all in one piece, but when I examine the unresponsive, shattered screen, frozen during a call from Mor that I’ll never be able to answer, it’s clear that it is broken beyond repair. After I give myself a moment to master my shock, I remember belatedly that I left it in my coat last night. Stupid, stupid, _stupid..._

How _dare_ he—I obviously can’t afford to get it fixed, which he _knows_ , and buying a new phone is out of the question. I can't even tell Mor what happened—though I’m sure she’ll be able to infer why I’m not answering her texts, one way or another.

A distorted mockery of my face stares back at me from the cracked screen, and like a punch to the stomach, it hits me once more just how completely, utterly alone I am.

 

19.

Tamlin ignores me all weekend, and to my surprise, I’m fine with that. I have nothing to say to him that won’t land me in more trouble, and trouble is not something that I can risk. It’s easier and safer for me to keep my head down and my mouth shut while he chooses not to acknowledge me.

For the first time, pure, hot anger boils inside of me, even stronger than the gnawing guilt I’m so used to bearing. Anger that he has the audacity—and the ability—to lord so much control over my life. Anger that I am trapped and powerless to do anything about it. Who is he to monitor what company I keep?

Mor is the best, truest friend that I have ever had, and friendship like hers, like the rest of her… _our_ group, is a gift that I’ve never been given before. I’m not going to abandon some of the most important people in my life because Tamlin thinks that loving them makes me unfaithful. The notion is completely absurd.

Mor is right: I’m not Tamlin’s pet. Let him think that I’m a docile, submissive little girl; let him think that I’m moping in my room, miserable without his affection, his constant attention. But I have the right to be independent, and I can be strong. For the first time since that night, Rhys’s words light up once more like a beacon in my mind, lending me strength that I didn’t think I still had. _Fight it._

 

20.

Before I leave for work on Monday morning, I find an opportunity to do just that. With my ear pressed up against his bedroom door, I can hear him snoring softly, and I pray that he remains sound asleep for the next few minutes. For the time it will take me to do what I need to do.

Rallying my courage, I slowly crack open the door, hoping against hope that it won’t creak and barely daring to breathe lest I wake him. As quickly and quietly as a wraith, I slip inside, snatch his briefcase, and dart out, pressing my back up against the wall and opening it in my lap. With no small amount of urgency, I dig around inside of it, gently pushing aside papers, his wallet, and… my hand closes around the sleek body of his phone. Without a moment’s hesitation, I type in his password and draft a quick text to Mor.

Feyre, 6:32am: **Hey, it’s Feyre. Tamlin took my phone, so I won’t be able to text you for a while. I’m erasing this message once I send it, so please don’t text back. Don’t worry about me, and tell the boys not to either. I’ll figure this out.**

The minute it sends, I delete it, and I hope that Mor will do as I asked. I don’t want to risk anyone else getting hurt on my behalf.  

Still balancing the briefcase in my lap, I put the phone back where it was, then open his door and slip the case inside. Mercifully, he remained fast asleep the entire time, unaware of my small act of rebellion.

In my haste to get as far away from him as possible, in case he wakes up and finds me lurking outside his room, I almost forget to close his door behind me. I hold my breath as I slowly guide it shut, and barely make a sound as I tiptoe across the kitchen, the front entrance, and at last make it into the hall.

Once I’m safely out of the apartment, I release a shaky sigh, the tight vice of panic around my heart loosening its grip slightly. And strangely, though cold fear still sluices through me at the idea of Tamlin discovering what I’ve done, it feels as though a weight—small though it might be—has been lifted from my shoulders. I finally took Rhys’s advice, and in doing so, I proved to myself that though I may be fighting this alone, I am not helpless. Instinctively, I look down at my tattooed hand, covered once more in clean, white gauze. Though I’ve hidden it, I swear that I feel it appraising me, and I get the sense that if I were to look at it properly, I might find approval in its obsidian stare—appreciation of the boldness that it took to at last follow Rhys’s advice. Or perhaps it would remain unfeeling, unmoved by what I did, and how much it would have cost me had it gone wrong.

At the very least, despite all that has happened since Azriel’s birthday, Tamlin still hasn’t questioned the constant presence of the bandage. He’s too wrapped up in his own issues, his own needs, to wonder why my hand has taken so long to heal, especially when the cut on my forehead has clearly healed long ago, leaving a thin, raised scar as a reminder of what happens when his anxiety gets out of control.

But no matter how frustrated it makes me, I can't bring myself to blame him for it—not fully, not after Sienna. What happened to her was completely out of his control, and he could do nothing to stop it. So now, he’s compensating. Sienna’s death wasn't his fault, though I know that he blames himself for it; nor is it his fault that it affected him so profoundly, so irrevocably. It’s that thought alone that keeps my anger at bay long enough to let the guilt seep back in.

The plethora of emotions warring in the pit of my stomach is enough to curb my negligible appetite, so I don’t bother picking up breakfast on my way to Bloomsbury’s. If I’m feeling hungry later, I can always grab something from the café. But I can no more imagine future hunger than I can imagine an escape from my hopeless situation.

I’m the first person at the café this morning, I realise when I try the door and find it locked. I shouldn’t be surprised—the sky is still dark, only a dim swathe of blue light at the edge of the horizon heralding the approaching dawn. It’s a sight that I would have loved to paint a few weeks ago, one that I’ve seen before and tried without success to capture in my sketchbook. But that desire seems so far away now, a distant memory rather than a burning need. So I look away, focusing on the cold biting into my hands and the sound of the key turning in the lock, the fluorescent lights flickering on one by one and the lingering scent of coffee and cinnamon in the air. I take comfort in the familiarity of the café, turning my back to the dawn, to a beauty that should have left me breathless, but instead just filled me with sadness.

I’m barely present as I go through the motions of setting up for the day, and I don’t take notice when the door swings open and Alis walks in, kicking snow off her boots before joining me behind the counter. Though it takes all of my energy, I find the strength to curve my lips into a smile and respond in kind when she wishes me good morning; but she looks at me long enough to give me the impression that she isn’t fooled by my cheerful facade.

Though there’s no one else there, she stops what she’s doing and leads me to the privacy of the staff room, closing the door behind her and sitting me down. I know what she’s going to say even before she gently asks me if I’m alright, and though I assure her that yes, I’m fine, I know she doesn’t believe me as her gaze travels between my tattooed hand, my scarred forehead, my puffy eyes, and my carefully neutral expression. But she doesn’t pressure me to open up, though I’m sorely tempted to. Though I’ve come to realise that with Alis, there’s no use in hiding my own emotions, it seems as though, for my benefit, she lets me see the mingled disbelief and understanding in her eyes. She knows that things are getting worse, and she doesn’t need me to tell her so, but without needing to say a word, she let me know that she’s aware of what’s going on, and that I have a friend in her. The smile I give her as we walk back into the café is genuine, and costs me no energy.

As the holidays approach, Bloomsbury’s gets busier and busier, and there’s a strange comfort in the work that I do as I mix and pour and embellish drinks like clockwork, collecting smiles as order after order slides across the counter. There’s a rhythm to it, and the constant motion helps me to forget everything going on outside of this little sanctuary. I throw myself into my work, finding small, fleeting moments of contentment upon making customers happy. At least I can do that—even if I’m a disappointment to the people closest to me, at least I can bring joy to a stranger on a cold December morning.

“Feyre,” says Alis as I pour black coffee into a bright red mug, bringing me back to reality and stopping my bittersweet musings, “don’t forget that the staff Christmas party is this Friday.” My heart sinks, all of my reticent joy vanishing. Another impossibility.

“I’ll try to make it,” I say unconvincingly, but there is no hurt, nothing upset in Alis’s dark, perceptive eyes—only grim understanding. Somehow, that makes it so much worse.

 

21.

Later that day, as I head for the door at the end of another long shift, Alis takes my hand and holds me back a moment. After a long, meaningful look, she tilts her head up and whispers, “Be safe. I’m here if you need me.” I nod, trying to silently convey my gratitude without betraying my misery, my unwillingness to jeopardise her safety by involving her. And after one last stolen moment standing in the warm, scented air, I step outside. 

Three days have come and gone since our fight, and Tamlin is still so angry that he refuses to speak to me, but he now insists on picking me up from work, evidently worried that, left to my own devices, I’ll sneak off to see Mor and the others. The short car rides back to the apartment are suffocating in their heavy, palpable silence; and though outside, it’s well below freezing, somehow, I feel much colder trapped in the car with Tamlin. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Domestic Abuse and Violence, Panic Attacks, PTSD
> 
> (Also, I'm sorry.)

22.

On the day of the Christmas party, Alis closes the café a full hour early—under the pretense of giving us time to set up for the party; but given the intimacy of the small gathering and the relatively minimal preparation needed, it’s clear that she’s doing us a kindness, thanking us for the long, hectic hours we’ve been putting in since the snow began to fall, bringing rosy-cheeked, windswept customers pouring in faster than we could pour their drinks. A rare indulgence, and a welcome reprieve from the seasonal chaos—one that we’d be fools not to appreciate.

And one that I’m unable to.

Since I have no way of contacting Tamlin (I grind my teeth thinking about my mutilated phone), I can't inform him that I need to be picked up early, since I won’t be attending the party; and I doubt he’d consider walking home an act of altruism. So I ignore my irritation, quell my disappointment (negligible though it might be), and stay behind to help out. Even if I’m not going, there’s no reason not to lend a hand.

Within minutes, white and blue paper snowflakes are hung from every light fixture, the walls are strung with tiny, glowing fairy lights, and all of the tables are covered in dainty little sandwiches and cookies of every variety. Alis even managed to scrounge up some washable paint, and when she directs a hopeful look at me, I take them from her and start adorning the front window with a few smiling elves, a spray of white and yellow stars, and a cheeky, dancing snowman. As I paint, as the cafe becomes more and more bright and festive, I find myself becoming strangely upset that I can’t attend, despite how tired I am, both in body and in mind. But I trample down the feeling—dwelling on it will only make me miserable.

The warning flash of headlights in the parking lot stops my useless musings, and I avoid my well-meaning colleagues’ looks of pity as I wave a halfhearted goodbye and dash out the door, the jolly paper snowflakes fluttering like fairies in the gust of wind.

Another awkward drive home comes and goes, another stifling ascent up too many stairs, and I’m once again in my room, sitting listlessly on my bed, staring at the tattoo in my palm—the only company I have, it would seem. When I squint at it, the slitted eye looks almost forlorn, as if it's acutely aware of how I'm truly feeling, even with the facade I’ve been keeping up. I wouldn’t be surprised—I stopped being cynical about the impossible the moment a drop of blood-turned-ink began etching shapes into my skin.

As I meet its unblinking stare, I find it impossible not to think of Rhys. I somehow managed to forget, for a short while, that he’s the one on the other end of this mysterious bond. Thankfully, it seems as though I haven’t yet experienced an emotion strong enough to warrant a summons, and I haven’t felt anything alarming on my end, either. A blessing and, quite frankly, a miracle.

I try to think of something else, _anything_ else, but all I can think about is the way he looked on the night of Azriel’s birthday—the look on his beautiful, desolate face as Tamlin dragged me away without having to lay a finger on me.

_Fight it._

The truth is that I stopped trying after I sent that text, even though there are some days when I can’t stop my anger from eclipsing my guilt and sadness at the unfairness of it all. I imagine all of my coworkers enjoying the party, Alis smiling and singing Christmas carols, carefree in their joy… I want to be there. I want to go, and I can’t.

Can I?  

Not sure what good could possibly come of it, I silence everything but my heartbeat and listen, attentive to any sounds of movement in the apartment. But I hear none—no creaking floorboards, no shuffling feet, just my heart hammering in my ears and the sound of my own breathing. Quietly, I leave my room and have a look around for Tamlin, surprised by the boldness of my curiosity… and catch the front door as it clicks shut. _He must be going out with his friends tonight,_ I realise. The thought renews my fury: _I’m_ not allowed to see _my_ friends, but he’s allowed to see his whenever he pleases. His freedom doesn’t come with terms and conditions.

That’s what finally spurs me into action.

Returning to my room and closing the door behind me, I begin to rifle through my wardrobe, feeling more and more emboldened as I choose a few articles of clothing and push others aside. At last, I select a soft, short-sleeved black dress and tug it on, leaving my coffee-stained work clothes in a haphazard pile on the floor. Its scooped neck shows a modest amount of cleavage, and the dress hugs my waist before hanging loosely over my hips and stopping just above my knees.

Comfortable, but pretty.

I put on just a bit of makeup—some mascara and a sweep of Christmas-red lipstick—and take my hair out of its practical braid, letting it fall in loose waves down my back. When I take a final look at myself in the mirror, I notice that the dress is looser on me than it was the last time I had the occasion to wear it, but I don’t give it much thought as I shrug on my coat and open the bedroom door.

What I wasn’t expecting was to find myself face-to-face with Tamlin—who does _not_ look impressed.

“Where do you think you're going?” he demands, taking a step into my room and forcing me to stumble back.

I scramble to find something to say.

“Are you not going out after all? It’s not like you to cancel plans—are you alright?”

His expression doesn’t change, and he regards me with unbridled irritation.

“I forgot my wallet.” Brandishing it at me for emphasis, he repeats, “ _Where_ were you going?”

“Work,” I answer. “It’s… tonight’s the café’s Christmas party, and I have to make an appearance. My boss really wanted me to go—”

“You’re not going.”

“Why not?” I snap, for once not bothering to mask my anger. “It’s just a Christmas party, and Mor won’t even be there,” I add desperately, hoping that small truth might change his mind. I’ve never challenged him like this before, but I can’t understand why he’s so opposed to something as benign as this.

“I won’t risk you getting hurt,” he says curtly.

 _Not this again._ My eyes flick to the door, still ajar. Maybe I could wait until he leaves again, and then—

“Don’t even think about it.” The warning in his tone is icy and leaves no room for debate of any kind.

“I know how to keep myself safe,” I repeat, imploring. “Please.” The word tastes bitter in my mouth, and I cringe inwardly at how utterly pathetic it sounds—how pathetic _I_ sound.

He merely shakes his head, turning away from me and leaving me standing behind the threshold, suddenly feeling foolish in my too-loose dress and cheery makeup.

In a surge of courage and desperation, I find it in myself to speak again, reaching out and placing a hand on his shoulder to stop him from walking away. “There will _always_ be some threat,” I say, my voice laced with gentle determination. “There will always be some imaginary danger or _something_ that keeps me in here.” But he ignores me. “You _promised._ ” I’m beyond caring that I’m begging him at this point. “I need to get out of this apartment.”

He turns to face me, grabbing my wrist a little bit too tightly and lowering my hand. He doesn’t let go of it as he replies indifferently, “You can read, watch—”

“I don’t want to read!” I say, my exasperated voice echoing around the apartment. “I don’t want to read, or watch movies, or paint.” My heart breaks as I utter that last miserable truth. I haven’t painted in weeks… but that’s besides the point. “I want to _do_ something, with other people. So let me go out.”

I am sick of being treated like I'm made of glass, like I’m incapable of taking care of myself. I have never been that person, not even before I was with Tamlin, and I can’t allow myself to be cloistered here like his prized possession forever. But he doesn’t answer me, so I lift my chin and say firmly, “I’m going whether you want me to or not.”

His grip on my wrist tightens threateningly, and I hiss in pain despite myself. His eyes flick down, as if he only just noticed that he’d grabbed me, but he doesn’t release me, even when I try to pull my arm free. When I lift my head to scowl at him, I find his eyes still trained on the wrist he’s holding captive, and I realise a moment too late that I forgot to re-wrap my hand before going out.

Terror like I’ve never known lances through me, the menace in his green eyes stripping me bare when I meet his piercing glare. In one last act of hope, I clench my hand shut.

 _“What is that,”_ he growls, squeezing my wrist painfully until my fist unfurls against my will, revealing the obsidian tattoo. I cry out as his nails dig cruelly into my wrist, breaking the bruised skin; blood wells and trickles down my arm like a line of crimson tears. When I don’t answer, he twists my wrist so hard that my knees buckle, and I fight not to crumple to the floor.

“It… it just a-appeared, Tam,” I say, choking on the words as my wrist smarts in his grip. “I’m… I’m so sorry—”

“When.” An order, not a question. But before I open my mouth to reply, he answers himself. “That day, with the glass…”

“I’m so sorry, Tam,” I say through tears of pain and guilt. “I’m so, so—”

So fast I don’t have time to react, he backhands me across the face, knocking me to the ground and sending ripples of pain through my arm as he bends my wrist almost hard enough to break it. I cry out, and he at last lets go, glaring down at me with burning, lethal rage. And I know it to be true even before he snarls, “You aren’t going,” a final time and storms out, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

I lift a shaking hand to my face. There’s no cut this time, but… he _hit_ me. The one thing I never thought Tamlin would do… but before I get the chance to wrap my head around it all, I hear a sound that makes my blood ice over.

Cutting through the silence in my room is the unmistakeable sound of a lock sliding into place.

The lock on my door has long been broken, and there’s no mechanism on the inside—no way for me to let myself out. Clutching my sore wrist to my chest, I jump up from the floor and rush to try the handle, pushing furiously on the door—but it’s useless. I bang on it for all I’m worth, unable to come to terms with the fact that he locked me in. _He trapped…_

“Tamlin,” I plead, pounding on the door and trying in vain to force it open. No reply. I hear the sound of his footsteps growing softer and softer as he walks away from me. _“Tamlin,”_ I say again, shoving my whole body against it, dull pain radiating through me. But the sound of the front door slamming shut clangs through the apartment like a death knell.

He locked me in. He sealed me inside this apartment. I am trapped.

I run for the bedroom window, wrenching it open and sticking my head outside, unsure whether I'm going to vomit or try to climb through. But the window is much too small to fit through, and my room is eight floors above the ground. A brisk winter wind stings my flushed cheeks, and I eventually pull myself back inside, my chest heaving and my stomach churning.

I am _trapped_. He trapped me inside this room, with no way to get out—I might as well be stuck inside that locker again—

_No. You will not let yourself panic. You’re safe here._

But I can’t help it when my hands shake a little bit, sending jolts of pain through my bruised, bleeding wrist—I clench my hands into fists, my emotions fluctuating between panic and white-hot anger. He locked me in the apartment. He _locked me in—_

I push against the door again, to no avail. I throw all of my weight against it, but it doesn’t yield an inch. Defeated, I sink back down onto my bed and try to calm my racing heart.

 _You will not panic. Breathe._ This is not a locker. But I’m still trapped here, helpless, and I have no clue when Tamlin will be home. I could be stuck here all night and I can’t get out, I can’t get out, I can’t…

I squeeze my eyes shut, taking deep, measured breaths. My heart is pounding a frantic rhythm in my ears and my hands tremble in my lap. I hate myself for being so weak, for letting the horrors of my past affect me so much that I’m still a prisoner of this fear after all this time. Familiar, leering faces swim in my vision, and then small, dainty hands are on me and I’m once again being shoved into a cruelly small space, pounding on the narrow door, my only source of light coming through the slitted vents as I beg someone, _anyone,_ to let me out. _No no no no no—_

My breath comes in short pants and I curl in on myself, hugging my knees to my chest and cradling my sore wrist with my other hand. I don’t know how much time passes as I sit on my bed, fighting a losing battle against my panic, occasionally trying the door again or sticking my head out the window, desperate to purge the taste of metal from my lungs.

Some time later, distantly, I hear the front door open and a pair of footsteps coming hurriedly closer.

“Tamlin?” I hear a scraping noise and a rattle, and then the door swings open to reveal Mor standing there, mouth agape.

“What the hell happened?” she demands without preamble.

“H-he…” I stutter, “he lo-locked me in.” The tremor in my voice mocks me, but Mor is silent, simply taking my hand and slinging my purse over her shoulder. I don’t fight her as she pulls me through the apartment, numb as she gently wraps my coat around me and guides me into my boots. Her hand is a lifeline, and I cling to it for all I’m worth, not caring how she knew to find me, just grateful that she did.

I let her lead me down the stairs, and my shaking starts anew the moment we plunge into the darkness of the cold, cramped staircase. But she squeezes my hand firmly, grounding me, reminding me that she’s there, that I’m not alone. That this darkness isn’t of my own creation.

“You’re out; you’re _free_.” She repeats it over and over again as we descend, as I fight to master my fear, my trembling, knowing all the while that it’s a battle I won’t win.

When we get into her car, I feel my last vestiges of strength leave me as fear consumes me entirely, all of the air snatched from my lungs—I can’t breathe in the compact space, the moonlight not bright enough to chase away the shadows smothering me. The last thing I hear before I surrender to my terror is Mor’s voice murmuring a steady, soft chorus of, “You’re free, you’re free, you’re _free._ ” 

Then the world goes silent, and everything fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: Some of the dialogue in this chapter was borrowed from A Court of Mist and Fury, by Sarah J. Maas. I do not own any of this content, though the rest of the story is my own.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hope you enjoy!

23.

Gradually, my senses come back to me, as if I’m slowly surfacing from underwater. When I peel my eyes open, I find myself lying in a strange bed, in a strange room, squinting through bright light filtering in through unfamiliar windows and casting shadows on furniture I’ve never seen before. It takes more effort than it should have to push myself into a sitting position, but before I’ve formed a coherent thought or ventured a guess as to where I am, my eyes are drawn to a figure perched on the edge of the mattress. Panic chokes me like a noose around my neck. It must be Tamlin, and I try to summon strength I don’t have to scramble out of the bed. But upon hearing my feeble attempt at movement, the figure turns towards me, revealing a stoic, porcelain face and tired brown eyes. Mor. 

My heart stutters a final time, then begins to slow down, fear taking a backseat to profound confusion. “What happened?” I croak. But as I voice the question, the answer slowly trickles back to me—Tamlin locking me up, Mor letting me out and taking me away…  _ You’re out. You’re free.  _

I release a shaky breath I didn’t realise I was holding, allowing myself a minute to calm down before speaking the first thought that enters my mind. “How did you find me?” 

She looks wary as she utters a single, damning word. “Rhys.” 

I freeze, my heart rate ratcheting back up at an alarming speed. I thoughtlessly tuck my hands under the covers, but Mor tsks at me. “I know you have his tattoo.” 

“What?” I rasp. My left hand throbs, sending dull pain radiating up my arm, and I notice a moment later that my wrist, previously bare, has been wrapped once more in gauze. Just my wrist—my tattoo stares up at me, uncovered. I quickly avert my gaze, looking away from the eye and the mockery of concern in its stare. A small smile plays about Mor’s lips. 

“He called me the minute it appeared, and when you came to me later that day asking questions about tattoos… I’d have been a fool to think it was a coincidence. Why you chose not to tell me isn’t my business, and I don’t blame you. But you didn’t fool me for a second.” She smirks, evidently quite pleased with herself, and I bite my lip.

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” I demand, terror flooding me anew. “Does he know?”

Mor’s eyes soften as she takes in my stricken expression. “No, and I don’t think so. He didn’t piece it together last night, so it’s doubtful. One minute, he was perfectly fine, and the next, he was nearly hyperventilating—white as a sheet and absolutely terrified for no conceivable reason. I guess I was right about you two having linked emotions.” Her good-natured amusement makes the situation somewhat more bearable, and my breathing begins to even out. 

“What do I do now?” I ask in a small voice.

She looks at me. “Whatever you want to do. Tell him, don’t, but whatever you do with Rhys,” she snickers softly, not-so-subtly hinting at what she thinks that should include, “you do not have to go back there. You can stay here as long as you need to.” Her eyes flick down to my tattooed hand, my bandaged wrist. In all of the time that I’ve known Mor, I’ve never seen her look as livid as she does in this moment. She must have been the one to wrap my wrist, so she saw what he… what he did to me.  _ He hurt me.  _

I rotate my hand, and apart from a dull, distant pain, nothing feels broken or sprained. But when I prod the gauze, I hiss—the small, half-moon cuts are still tender, and my wrist seems to be pretty badly bruised. But it’s nothing that won’t heal with time. 

“I—” I stammer, “I need to go back at some point.” Already, the notion of returning so soon after being trapped there makes me feel sick.

“Say the word and it’s done,” Mor says, though she looks about as keen to bring me back as I am to return there.

But what would she be bringing me back to? Days alone in an empty apartment, nothing whatsoever to do and no one to talk to? 

“Again, you can stay here for as long as you need to. God knows I get lonely with all this empty space, even with Rhys here.” She gestures around her, at the bedroom that’s easily twice the size of my own and much less spartan. I’ve been to Mor’s home a few times before, and she often bemoans the surplus of rooms and notable lack of occupants in her cozy townhouse. 

The latter part of her sentence registers a moment later. I’d forgotten that Rhys was staying with Mor.  _ That’ll make hiding my tattoo a good deal more complicated,  _ I realise with mounting dread. A small part of me feels obliged to tell him, to admit that I’ve been hiding this from him for a few weeks; but another part of me knows how completely unprepared I would be to face the consequences of doing so, good or bad. So I resolve, in this moment, to wait, to deal with one problem before jumping headfirst into another one. 

I flex my hand, examining my tattoo again in the fresh rays of sunlight. It really is quite beautiful: an elegant, simplistic design drawn by a very skilled hand. The black ink is stark against the pale skin of my palm, even more so beside the sterile white gauze below. At least, I think with a wry look at my wrapped, smarting wrist, I’ve got another excuse to cover my hand. 

I take a look outside the window behind Mor’s seated silhouette, as if I can see all the way back to Tamlin’s apartment. He will be  _ furious. _ I wonder if I’ll even have a home to go back to. 

But he… he locked me up. Regardless of my own demons, he showed me in no uncertain terms that I am nothing more to him than his prize to be locked away. That was never a life I wanted to live, and I cannot be that for him anymore. The thought of being confined in my room a second time sends a jolt of terror through me—so forcefully that I blurt, “I’m not going back.” 

And I mean it. But the words resonate through my mind and coil around my heart, tightening like a steel fist. “Not—not until I figure things out.” I ignore the waves of guilt crashing over me in the wake of this realisation and accept the steaming cup of peppermint-scented tea that Mor seems to have produced out of nowhere. 

“Drink it.” An easy command to follow. I down half of it, the hot liquid warming my throat as it goes down, the mint calming me, if only a little bit. 

“I’ll let you get some rest,” Mor says softly as she stands to leave, but I murmur, “Stay, please,” and she sits back down without a word. I don’t want to… I can’t be left alone, and no matter how pathetic it makes me, I can’t bear to part with Mor again so soon, no matter how short a time we’d be separated. So I set the cup on the small wooden table beside the bed, comforted by my friend’s steadfast presence, and let myself drift into a deep, troubled sleep. 

 

24.

Mor is still perched at the foot of the bed, a book of impressive size balanced in her lap, when I wake up an unknowable amount of time later. I rub the sleep out of my eyes, stifling a yawn, and after a failed attempt to try to sit up, I slump back down, staring listlessly at the ceiling.  _ How long have I been out? _

“You slept all day, but it’s fine.” The sound of Mor’s voice is strangely jarring, as if I’m not quite awake enough to properly process her words, soft and quiet though they might be. “I’m going to go get dinner ready—if you ask nicely, there might even be some in it for you.” She winks at me, and that small, nearly forgotten gesture tears a weak laugh from me. “Oh,” she adds, “your purse is beside the bed, and I took the liberty of giving what’s left of your phone to Az to see if he could fix it. Is that alright?” 

I nod. “Thank you.” 

She scoffs. “What did I say about thanking me? Not necessary. Feel free to borrow some of my clothes if you want to—though your dress is quite nice.” With that, she strolls out of the room, leaving me to my own devices. It takes me a few moments to persuade myself to roll out of bed; it takes significantly less convincing to direct myself to the adjacent washroom, where I take a quick, hot shower, borrowing some of Mor’s cinnamon and orange-scented shampoo to wash my sleep-matted hair. 

I don’t bother putting together a proper outfit, instead rifling through what seems like hundreds of pairs of pyjamas, and eventually opt for a soft pair of flannels dotted with small red hearts. I chuckle—only Mor would have an entire wardrobe reserved for sleepwear. 

When I descend the short flight of carpeted stairs and enter the kitchen, I find Mor humming to herself as she sets the table for two, steam curling off of a large pizza waiting in the centre of the table. My stomach growls—though I haven’t had a particularly good relationship with my appetite lately, a day without food has left my body with little room for debate about the pros and cons of eating. I’m hungry. 

“The boys, traitorous miscreants that they are, have gone to Rita’s without us. But it’s their loss. I’d much prefer this—” she gestures to the pizza, half of it topped with various roasted vegetables, the other half covered in ham and pineapple, “—to greasy pub food. You and I are going to have a night in, and we’ll let those three catch up. Maybe Rhys will finally talk some sense into Cassian and encourage him to ask out your sister.” I snort. I’ve never met two more stubborn people, and for all of his suave, English charm, I doubt that even Rhys could push either of them together before they’re ready. 

Mor deftly cuts the pizza into eight enormous slices, dropping a generous portion of the vegetarian half onto my plate. I don’t have the heart to tell her that there’s no way that I’ll be able to finish all of it; I may be hungry, but I doubt that my body will forgive me so soon after neglecting it for weeks. Which, I realise, I am very guilty of doing. 

We eat in comfortable silence, both of us eagerly digging into the excess of food in front of us, and I’m surprised to find that I actually do make it through the entire monstrous slice. I don’t take any more, but I still manage to finish the whole piece, crust and all. Mor, by comparison, wipes her plate clean three slices later, not looking the least bit regretful. 

Despite my protests, she insists on cleaning up by herself, assuring me that I can help out once I’ve given myself the chance to recover; but I still carry my dish to the sink and take the leftovers to the fridge, ignoring her exasperated expression. 

Even though I have work early the following morning, we stay up late that night watching movies, and Mor does everything in her power to distract me from the events of the last twenty-four hours. But the memories lurk in wait at the edges of my mind, prepared to invade at the slightest provocation. I feel them like a physical presence, and when exhaustion starts to tug at the edges of my consciousness, I let myself fall asleep on the couch beside Mor, not knowing if I can bear being trapped alone in a bedroom once more. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last... Midterms have been killing me, and writers' block hasn't been helping, so this chapter has been a WIP for quite a while (awhile? I never can figure that one out). The good news is that I've got a good idea of where I want to go with the rest of the story, so hopefully, if not weekly, chapters will be uploaded more frequently than once every two months (sorry).
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think! :)

25.

When I wake up the next morning not to the watery light of dawn but to bright, buttery rays of sunshine, my heart stops dead in my chest. I leap out of the bed, my knees buckling when my feet hit the carpeted floor—I only spare a moment to gain my balance before hurtling across the room, cursing under my breath when my hip collides with the corner of the walnut dresser. As I rub the sore spot, I realise belatedly that, though I nodded off on the couch last night, I woke up tucked comfortably into a bed that I have no recollection of climbing into. How Mor managed to get me all the way up to the bedroom on her own is a mystery to me. But as I fly down the stairs, it occurs to me that it might not have been Mor who carried me to bed last night—she isn’t the only person living in her townhome anymore, after all. I don’t let myself dwell on it. 

I trip twice on my way down the stairs, not remotely concerned with the bruises I’m certainly collecting in the process, only caring about finding clothing and locating Mor. It seems as though the staircase grows longer and longer as I descend, in my desperation to move faster. My footsteps are as fast as my heartbeat as I race through the foyer and into the kitchen, where I find her sitting at the kitchen table, her nose buried in another book while she cradles a cup of coffee. 

I skid to a stop in front of her, a hand clutched to my heaving chest, and she doesn’t temper the concern in her expression. 

“Could I borrow some clothes?” I wheeze. “I’m late for work and I can’t… I can’t afford to miss a shift.” I feel as though I’ve run a mile, stress sapping the rest of my energy after my hurtle down the stairs.

“Feyre,” she stops me gently, “I already called your boss and told her what happened.”

The relief that I’m supposed to feel doesn’t come. I blanch.  _ She can’t know what happened. I can’t…  _

Taking in my pained expression, Mor quickly backtracks. “Well, I didn’t tell her  _ everything _ , but she knows enough. She told me to tell you that she wants you to take as long as you need to get better, and that you can talk to her, if you want to.” 

_ That’s Alis.  _ Bit by bit, my heartbeat begins to calm down, my body slowly catching up with my mind, with this new knowledge. I trust Alis more than I trust anyone else. She was the first and only person I shared the secret of my tattoo with, and she’s always been there for me, even when she had no reason to take any interest in my private life, in my well-being. In her own way, she’s been taking care of me since I first stumbled through Bloomsbury’s glass doors, exhausted and bedraggled, and begged her for a job. And that’s why I couldn’t tell her everything, why I haven’t been talking to her about Tamlin, even in those moments when I would have done anything for a bit of her advice. Alis cares for me too much, and I worry that, given reasonable cause, she would sooner prioritise my health than let me return to my job. 

But even when no one else noticed me breaking apart, Alis saw through my glass smiles and the paper-thin reassurances that everyone else readily accepted as truths. Hiding from her was never an option, and even now, I can’t imagine ever lying to her. 

To tell her everything, though, might mean forfeiting the only thing in my life that gives me purpose. Without a job, without the café, I would be useless. It’s all I have. 

Either way, the knowledge that, for now, I’m not facing imminent unemployment is enough for my heartbeat to return to some semblance of normal, and I remember how to breathe again. 

I smile weakly. “Thanks, Mor. You didn’t have to do that for me.” 

“Of course I did. Now come on—you’re obviously welcome to borrow any clothing you want, and when you’re feeling up to it, I’ll take you back…  _ there _ to get whatever you need. But only if you want to,” she adds. “There’s no hurry, and I won’t force you to go back.” My stomach turns violently at the thought, but I nod mutely, letting Mor guide me to the kitchen table, which is arranged with a variety of breakfast foods that I know I won’t be partaking in. 

“Mor…” Though I want to believe her, though I have no reason not to, her assurance that both me and my job are safe seems too good to be true. 

She looks at me expectantly. 

“Could I borrow your phone?” I ask in a voice meek enough to bely my motive. But she just pours herself a glass of orange juice and gives me a lopsided smile.

“Sure, if it’ll ease your mind. I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear from you.” She slides her phone across the table to me, narrowly avoiding a collision with my empty glass.

The dial tone only rings once before Alis’s voice warbles through the speaker.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Alis. How’re—”

“Feyre! My god, your friend called me this morning. Are you alright?”

I open my mouth to answer, a practiced lie on my tongue, but quickly reconsider. Now isn’t the time for deflection and empty reassurances. 

“No,” I say truthfully. “He…”  _ He hit me. He locked me up.  _ But the words stick in my throat, my body trapping the truths that my mind so desperately wishes were not real—as if to pronounce them is to make them so. “I can’t go back there.” It’s the most honest thing I can say.

“I know, dear. And you don’t have to.” 

_ I do, though _ . I left so much behind: clothes, books, art supplies… but as I list them off in my head, their importance recedes like an unwilling tide. Mor told me in no uncertain terms that I’m welcome to the contents of her wardrobe, and though she’s a little bit taller than me and looks much healthier, I’m not without options. My books, my art supplies—though it breaks my heart to leave them behind, they’re all replaceable. To live without them, either for a short while or forever, would not be such a huge burden. 

At a loss for something to say, I wait in silence for Alis to continue the conversation. 

“I told Morrigan this, too, but I’ll tell you again, Feyre.” She speaks to me slowly, in a grave voice hard-edged with concern. “You are not to return to work until you are ready, until you feel safe and healthy enough to come back. I don’t want to see you back here until I see some light in those eyes, alright? Even if you hadn’t collected enough sick days to earn you an entire year of vacation, I’d be telling you this, and as your friend, I refuse to take them. Be well, Feyre. Be safe.”

I close my eyes, and I have to bite back the words before they fall off my tongue:  _ I don’t deserve this. _ I know that no matter how true I know it to be, it won’t be an answer that Alis will accept.

So, instead, I just say, “Thank you, Alis,” and though I intended to convey how unendingly grateful I am for this kindness, the words are a pathetic croak that are barely audible. 

I try again. “Thank you.” My voice wavers, but it comes out stronger this time. 

“Just take care of yourself. I’m here if you need me. Goodbye, dear.”

“Bye,” I mumble, hanging up and giving Mor back her phone. 

She grabs it without looking up and says around a mouthful of toast, “I told you. That’s not something you have to worry about.” I’m still fighting a small war with my disbelief, despite what I’ve just been unequivocally assured by both my boss and my closest friend, so I just nod absently and fidget in my seat. I fill a plate with fruit and butter a piece of toast with no intention of eating either. 

After taking a bite of bread slathered in jam, Mor swallows and looks up at me. “I don’t want to overwhelm you, so it’s alright if you say no, but would you be comfortable with Rhys joining us for breakfast?” Her expression is neutral, betraying neither hopefulness for me to confirm nor acceptance should I choose to deny. But when I take a moment to consider her question, I can’t find it in me to care either way. Not about anyone seeing me with dishevelled hair in borrowed pyjamas, not about seeing Rhys—something that, a week ago, would have procured an entirely different reaction. I feel... nothing. Silence in my mind, in my heart. 

The bright red jam glistening in the late morning sunshine, the plethora of jewel-toned fruits, should be melting into dozens of new colours and palettes in my mind, filling me with that familiar, insatiable desire to paint. But my hands lay still, uninspired and uninterested. That once-thriving part of me has wilted—as dull, miserable, and colourless as the rest of me. 

I nod. “Sure.” Mor doesn’t look convinced of my sincerity, but accepts my answer nonetheless. 

Without warning, she turns in her seat and hollers  _ “Rhys!” _ loud enough that I jump, my hand tightening involuntarily around the unused fork I’m holding. Mor giggles at my reaction. A few days ago, I might have laughed, too, but this morning, there is no laughter in me. 

“Don’t worry, you look great,” she insists, giving me an exaggerated once-over. It takes more energy than it should have to lift a brow at her—less to convey my disbelief—but she just smiles wider and flicks her eyes to the staircase at the same time that I hear soft, even footsteps padding down the steps. 

Rhys strides gracefully into the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee at the counter before coming to take a seat next to me. 

“Good morning, ladies,” he says with a grin. “Cousin.” He inclines his head to each of us in turn, garnering an eyeroll from Mor and a small, forced smile from me. 

“Morning,” I mumble back, fixing my eyes on my untouched plate. Out of the corner of my vision, I think I see him and Mor exchanging looks, but I pay them no mind, tracking the movement of my fork as I push fruit absently around my plate. 

“You’re looking lovely this morning, Feyre darling,” Rhys drawls, and this time, I don’t hold back a humourless snort.  _ Lovely. _ “I think you might even look better in Mor’s clothing than she does.” 

Mor scoffs, affronted, and though I was sure I didn’t have it in me, I find myself breathing something akin to a feeble chuckle. I peer at Rhys, whose lips are curled into a singularly satisfied smile, as if that pathetic puff of air was some sort of rare prize that he’d won.  _ He’s certainly a strange one _ . 

For the next few minutes, the three of us sit in near-silence, Rhys and Mor helping themselves to the generous breakfast spread while I continue poking and prodding at the sliced fruit on my plate. 

“Not hungry?” I hadn’t noticed Rhys staring at me while I was determinedly deconstructing my breakfast. He probably just happened to look over and noticed my halfhearted attempt at pretending to eat. It’s not like I’m trying to hide it. 

I don’t reply, my eyes selecting a slice of soft green melon to stare at. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know,” he goes on, placing a blueberry muffin on my plate despite the neglected fruit taking up most of the space. “Countless studies have shown that if you don’t eat breakfast every morning, you’re much less likely to be fit to banter with charming English men.” After making the effort to shoot him an unimpressed look, I take a small bite out of the muffin just to get him to shut up. But it only widens his smile, and he looks incredibly, maddeningly pleased with himself when I finish the rest of it out of spite. 

Across the table, Mor looks both amused and pleased at our repartee—one-sided though it might be—her lips tilting into a half smile as her eyes dart from the empty muffin wrapper, to Rhys, to me. 

But I’m still so, so tired, exhausted down to my bones, and I’m nothing but a sour presence while the two of them are so cheerful. So I excuse myself and retreat to my room, leaving the door wide open. The murmur of their faraway conversation continues to trickle into the room, and though the words are indiscernible, it’s clear that they’re having a better time without me—something that should make me sad, but instead leaves me with a strange feeling of relief. They won’t miss me up here. So I crawl back under the sumptuously plush covers and welcome the soft blanket of sleep when it reaches for me. 

 

26.

“Feyre? Feyre, are you alive?” 

Distantly, Mor’s voice penetrates my sleep-fogged mind, sounding as though she’s calling out to me from another room, and I slowly surface from a heavy, dreamless sleep, no less tired than when I dozed off that morning. Peeling my eyes open, I pick up the outline of her dark silhouette by the door, and when I turn on the lamp by the bed, wincing in the light’s sudden glare, Mor strides towards me with a plate of leftover pizza and a glass of water. I roll to face her, and she smiles, depositing the food on the unoccupied bedside table and coming to sit by me.

“Are you alright?” she asks gently, though her eyes are wary. My first instinct is to be honest: no, I’m not alright, and I don’t know if I ever will be again. But in this moment, I’m safe, I’m warm, I’m comfortable, and I’m in the presence of my best friend. So I nod, and with some effort, push myself into a seated position.

“What time is it?” I rasp, my voice not quite as awake as my mind. 

Mor replies at the same time as I register the night sky outside the window, answering my own question. “You slept the whole day. I came to check on you a few times, but I didn’t want to wake you up. I know you’re tired.” I slept all day, yet it feels like I haven’t slept at all. A sigh whispers through my chapped lips, and I reach for the glass of water, taking a grateful sip. “I just wanted to see if you were still breathing,” she jokes. “Rhys was worried about you, too,” she adds with a significant look, “but we both thought it would be best if I came to see you instead of him.”

_ And thank god for that. _ I don’t know what I would have done if I’d woken up to see Rhys hovering over me instead of Mor’s familiar shadow. I’m not ready to be subjected to that kind of vulnerability. 

Now that some of my senses have returned to me, I’m struck by a disconcerting thought. “Mor,” I venture, “you didn’t tell any of the boys what happened, did you? Or Amren?” My friends have never shown themselves to be pitying people, or the type who endlessly repeat ‘It’ll get better’ like a heal-all mantra, but I still don’t want everyone made aware of just how low I’ve been brought. 

“Of course not,” she assures me, and some of the tension leaves my body. “And I won’t. But I did tell them that you’re going through a bit of a rough time, so they might try to cheer you up the next time they see you.” I cringe—not at Mor, not at my friends, but at the thought of so many people crowding around me, drowning me in a sea of good intentions, trying to get me to crack a smile when I can feel myself cracking on the inside.  

“How do I tell them not to worry about me?” 

“You  _ don’t _ tell them. If they’re invading your space, if it’s too much for you, trust me that they’ll understand and back off if you tell them to. But you are their friend—they'll worry about you no matter what.” 

The truth in her words is absolute—I know that. She doesn’t have to remind me of my friends’ stubborn loyalty to prove it. Even if I were to insist on my honour that nothing is wrong with me, they would still care about me. They always will, no matter how pathetic I am, nor how little I deserve it. 

“Tomorrow, we can do whatever you want. Tonight, eat your dinner and get a good night’s sleep. I’m just across the hall, and Rhys is in the room next to yours, if you need anything.” Like a dark cloak thrown over me, exhaustion weighs me down once more, as if it had been lurking just out of reach and only needed some small incentive to return in full force. But I don’t lie back down until Mor gives my hand a squeeze and leaves the room, the door propped open behind her as it had been when she’d come in. Only then do I turn off the light and slump back down under the covers, falling asleep before my head hits the pillow and leaving the pizza to go cold. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! Thank you for all of the sweet messages, and for being so patient with me while I struggle with a veritable deluge of papers and assignments. I've been drowning in schoolwork for what feels like forever, and I've finally got a chapter polished enough to be ready to post. 
> 
> You're all lovely, and I hope you enjoy this next chapter! :)

27.

The days that follow are a blur of long, grey mornings and freezing nights. Breakfasts pass uneventfully, one empty pocket of time after another—endless variations of substanceless chatter and full plates of untouched food (at least on my part) before I inevitably trudge back to the bedroom. Once or twice, Mor successfully ropes me into spending an evening with her, which largely consists of watching animated movies or reruns of Game of Thrones in her living room, passing a bowl of popcorn back and forth as Mor pretends not to notice that she’s the only one eating from it. 

Amazingly, Mor hasn’t given up on me yet. I can’t fathom how—I loathe my own company, and spend far too much time wishing I could crawl out of my own skin and vanish, just to get a moment’s reprieve from my thoughts. So I don’t understand why, after an entire week, she hasn’t prioritised her own sanity and left me to my misery. 

Every time she tries to get me to open up, to fracture my shell and give her a fleeting glimpse at what I’m thinking, how I’m feeling, I push her away. I’m not sure I have the words to express the roiling hurricane in my mind, the raging storm that roars its emptiness at me, leaving me feeling barren and cold as it surges through. 

And I  _ am _ cold, all the time. I’ve taken to carrying a blanket with me around the house, wrapping it around myself like a pliant fur shield, letting its train drag behind me as I make my daily circuit from the bedroom to the kitchen to the bedroom. 

It doesn’t help that the windows in my room are always open, thrown wide to let as much air as possible into the vast space. The bitter bite of winter gives me something to focus on, an acute discomfort I can cling to when the room inevitably begins to feel too small. I welcome the chill if it means that I can breathe even a little bit easier. 

Mor knows better than to close the windows, though each morning, I find another blanket placed carefully on the corner of the bed. Not draped over me, no—she leaves it up to me whether or not I can handle any more weight on top of me. She knows that, for me, the promise of protection isn’t worth the threat of suffocation. 

Rhys… somehow, he seems to understand. We’ve established a strange, quiet routine of sorts: at breakfast, he fills my plate with an absurd amount of food—far more than anyone could possibly eat in one sitting, least of all me—then attempts to goad me into forcing something down my throat. And each time he successfully pesters me into picking up a piece of fruit or a small pastry, usually before I realise what I’m doing, he flashes me a grin and promptly returns to his own breakfast. Just the right amount of push and pull. 

When Mor and I spend evenings together, he doesn’t interrupt us, doesn’t join us in our comfortable quiet. But I catch him sometimes, lurking nearly out of view, and I’m never sure if it’s concern or morbid curiosity that lures him into the shadows around us. Either way, he’s a distant presence, only ever as close as I want him to be. Which is typically as far away as possible—or right by my side. I still haven’t decided, and my mind is too battered to sort out which of these thoughts are my true feelings and which parts are the bond doing its cryptic magic.

In the time that I’ve been here, the bond has been… quiet. Before, I could feel it murmuring under my skin, a living presence thinly veiled under flesh and ink. Now, it seems as though my numbness has spread, silencing it, too. I haven’t looked at the tattoo since Mor and I re-wrapped my hand the day I arrived here, and I almost miss its exasperating, perplexing sentience, the company it offered me during my loneliest hours. 

But perhaps its silence is a blessing. I don’t know if I could bear to see it, to meet its familiar, omniscient stare and wonder if the man on its other end can feel what I’m feeling. For his sake, I hope not.

Thankfully, Rhys seems unaffected by my melancholy; to all appearances, he’s as lively and roguish as usual. For which I’m grateful—I wouldn’t wish this numbness, this aching silence, on anyone.  

Mid-way through another one of our movie nights, I wrench my waning attention away from the sickeningly romantic scene on the screen and turn to face Mor. She, unlike me, is completely captivated by the movie, a faint smile on her lips as the tragically separated couple onscreen are reunited at last. I almost don’t have the heart to draw her attention away from it, but I’ve been gathering my resolve all night, and I’m determined to speak up before I lose my nerve.

I touch Mor tentatively on the shoulder, already feeling guilty for pulling her from her reverie. She swivels towards me, seemingly unperturbed by the interruption, and I spew the lie before I can give myself the chance to reel it back in. 

“I want to go to Rita’s.”

The sweet, pleasant expression on her face slips away, replaced by one of surprise, and no small amount of disbelief. And she has every reason to be incredulous—leaving the house, facing the world the way I am now, is the very last thing I want. But it isn’t lost on me that Mor has quarantined herself in this house with me since she brought me here, and I will not have another person confined in their own home for my sake. 

“Maybe… maybe seeing everyone will do me some good,” I supply,  _ needing _ her to believe me. “Please.” The word tastes like ash, for how much I don’t want to be given what I’m begging her for. 

I don’t know if it’s because I’ve convinced her of my sincerity or because she’s ascertained the true reason I’m asking for something I so deeply do not want, but she smiles. “Alright, but not tonight.” 

It’s as I expected—it’s far too late at night for a social outing, no matter how available I know our friends would make themselves on our behalf. So I force myself to smile back, twisting my regret into gratitude and faking it for all I’m worth. “Thanks, Mor.”

Instead of brushing off my thanks, dutifully reminding me that I never need to thank her, she slowly nods at me, her expression inscrutable. I keep my face neutral, refusing to betray any of my warring feelings, and she gently takes my hand.

Without looking behind her, she grabs the remote and turns off the television with a soft click. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.” That’s a request I have no problem complying with, and I’m sure I’ve fallen into a cold, grey sleep long before she leads me up the stairs to my frozen room.

 

28.

I feel like a coiled spring from the moment I wake up the next day. That morning marks the first time I put up no fight at all when Rhys starts his good-natured badgering, and I’ve already eaten an entire piece of buttered toast before he’s finished arranging strawberries into a star in the centre of my plate. Once I’ve taken the last bite, leaving nothing behind but a few errant crumbs, a small, withered part of me laughs silently at Rhys’s flummoxed reaction—a strange expression for someone who’s so rarely ruffled. 

“Cat got your tongue?” My mouth curves into a weak imitation of his smirk, and for another moment, he’s completely silent, shocked by the first bit of liveliness I’ve shown in days. But he collects himself quickly.

“You know you make me speechless, Feyre darling.” He winks, and I roll my eyes, determinedly ignoring the flush burning high in my cheeks. I shove a strawberry in my mouth and try not to think about the way his amused chuckle slithers straight down my spine. 

My stomach roils, and I immediately regret my decision to give breakfast my best effort as I try to force down the suddenly offensive piece of fruit. I’m not sure how much I can attribute to bad eating habits, either—not with tonight’s outing fast approaching. There’s no question in my mind that I’ve made the right choice, giving Mor the chance to get out of the house. It’s obvious how careful she’s been to avoid mentioning the topic when she’s around me. But a few days ago, when I suggested that she go ahead to Rita’s without me, she flat-out refused. 

“It wouldn’t be the same without you,” she insisted, even though there have been plenty of times when I wasn’t able to go out with them in the past, depending on Tamlin’s mood that day. But she’d hear none of it. 

_ I can suffer through one night, _ I silently repeat to myself as I jab at the leftover fruit on my plate until all that remains is a lump of muddled strawberries and a few mutilated orange slices. When I look up from my destruction, I find Rhys looking at me askance—his expression caught somewhere between amusement and concern. 

I can’t be certain whether he, like Mor, has confined himself to the townhouse with me, either out of solidarity or circumstance. He eats breakfast with us every morning, then disappears for the rest of the day—possibly out of the house, but I don’t know. Sometimes, I hear movement coming from his room while I sit listlessly on my bed, and it makes me wonder if he truly hasn’t left since I got here. The thought only strengthens my resolve to make it through tonight. 

A few times, while I was trying to fall asleep, I was sure I could hear music coming from his room. I sleep better on those nights, letting the soft, enchanting piano melodies carry me into peaceful, dreamless sleep. I’ve never mentioned it to him, but I’m quietly grateful that he doesn’t favour headphones, instead letting the soft sparkle of the piano pass through our shared wall to fill the cold, empty space of my room.

Otherwise, my sleep is poisoned, and I wake exhausted and frightened and sick the next morning, often propelling myself to the washroom to purge the contents of my stomach before I’ve had the chance to take a breath. Winter, in this way, is a blessing, since no one can see the bruises blossoming on my knees through the thick flannel pyjama pants I wear around the house. On the nights where Rhys’s music doesn’t reach me, when his speaker isn’t loud enough, my sleep is plagued with nightmares: of small spaces leached of colour and air, with two different imposing figures towering over me; of stinging cheeks and bleeding wrists; dreams of blood and ink and tattoos. 

Last night, sometime during the movie Mor and I were watching (with varying degrees of interest), I finally I decided that, tired or not, I’ve had rather enough of sleep. It’s about time that I do something other than drift in and out of unpleasant dreams. 

This was the thought that pushed me to stop being so selfish, to start taking my housebound friends into consideration. Now, as I mull over the wisdom of my act of altruism… I wonder if I have truly made the right choice. Regret is no less pleasant a feeling than guilt, but at least it’s a product of helping someone other than myself. For once.

The conversation has carried on without me since I descended into the dark pit of my own thoughts, and I quietly excuse myself from the table, dumping the decimated remains of my breakfast into the garbage and putting my dish in the sink before heading for the stairs.

But when my foot touches the first step, something makes me reconsider—a niggling, suggestive voice in the back of my mind echoing last night’s thoughts, urging me to turn around, directing me instead towards the vacant sitting room.  _ I’ve slept enough. _

To my surprise, I find my feet carrying me there before my mind has the chance to catch up and agree that perhaps a change of setting  _ would _ be nice.

The windows here are the largest in the house, taking up most of the wall space and offering an unobstructed view of Mor’s tiny, winter-shrouded backyard. A small stone fountain sits dormant in the centre of a frosted garden, the water in its basin frozen into smooth, clear ice. The snow covering the grass is undisturbed, sparkling in the sun like a blanket of tiny diamonds. Another beautiful sight that I should be aching to paint, to capture, but that I can’t even fathom trying to recreate. 

I curl my knees to my chest, examining the black brace around my wrist. It was Mor’s idea—she’d pointed out that my gauze-wrapped hand, after all this time, was beginning to draw attention rather than repel it. This way, my palm will still be covered, and I can simply claim a different injury. Skin doesn’t take weeks to heal. 

The brace covers the better part of my forearm, and wraps around my wrist and hand, concealing still-healing crescent moon cuts, a bracelet of fading bruises, and an obsidian eye. Looking at it now, I easily weave a few stories I could tell if someone were to ask me what happened: a typical winter slip-and-fall, tenderness from too much painting, strengthening, the truth... For now, at least, it’s a good cover.

The room looks vastly different now than it does at night—blindingly bright, scattering shadows and revealing all of the secrets they were hiding. Now that I’m alone, I allow myself to take a look around, and my attention immediately snags on a wall full of bookshelves that I didn’t notice before. 

Clutching my blanket tighter around me, I slowly uncurl to my feet and pad across the room, gaping at the rows upon rows of titles. They don’t seem to be arranged in any particular order; it’s as if they were simply placed where there was enough space to fit them—nothing more complicated. The spines of most of the books are cracked, giving me the impression that, incredibly, all of them have been read. I run my fingers along them, cataloguing their titles even though I know I’ll forget them the moment the shelves are out of sight. 

My fingers still when they brush one of the few books that appears to be untouched. I understand why the moment I pull it off the shelf: the title, printed in thin white lettering, is in French. 

Mor, in every year of university, packed her schedule full of language courses: Italian, Spanish, German, and a brief, failed attempt at Scottish Gaelic. But French isn’t one of the ones she dabbled in. Why she has a French novel taking up space on her bookshelf is beyond me, but it’s the one I select. I clutch it to my chest and carry it back to the couch, sinking into the cushions and opening it to the first page, hoping its story is more peaceful than my own. 

_ “La forêt n'était plus qu’un labyrinthe de neige et de glace. Depuis une heure que je scrutais les fourrés, j’avais fini par comprendre …”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, I'm completely self-indulgent and gave Feyre a French book to read—don't judge me...)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! I hope you've all had a wonderful holiday, and thanks for all of the comments and compliments and for being super nice and sweet and aah *hides face*. I have no plans to abandon this fic, for anyone wondering, even though these chapters are taking a while to write. Thanks for being so patient! Anyway... As usual, enjoy, and let me know what you think!

29.

“Enjoying your book?”

I gasp, startling so violently that the book flutters shut between my hands, and I whirl towards Rhys, scowling. But he’s the epitome of unrepentant as he strolls into the sitting room, a lazy smile on his face, his eyes crinkling with silent laughter at my annoyance. “I did promise to get you back for your wicked trick at the restaurant, did I not?” he reminds me. If he notices me flinch—just the barest tensing of my blanket-shrouded shoulders—he doesn’t comment. “Fair’s fair and all that.”

Slowly enough that I wonder if he’s offering me the chance to object, he moves to take a seat next to me on the couch. But I surprise myself when I don’t utter a word of protest. The cushions dip beneath his weight, and I shift my position so I don’t topple sideways onto him. When I look over at him, a mischievous smile curls the edges of his mouth, giving me the impression that he wouldn’t have minded that eventuality. If I’m being honest, the idea is tempting; despite the space between us, he radiates a pleasant, comfortable warmth, and I almost breathe a sigh as some of that endless cold melts away. But I don’t let myself move any closer.

“What are you reading?” he asks.

Since I’ve lost my page anyway, I hand it to him, and relish the mingled confusion and astonishment that flashes across his face when he reads the title.

“You speak French?”

“It’s my first language,” I supply. His gaze flicks up from his examination of the book, eyes meeting mine, and though he says nothing, the slight furrow between his brows betrays his curiosity. So I continue, “My family moved to an English-speaking town when I was really young, so I picked it up pretty quickly once we got there.” I don’t mention that I _needed_ to learn it quickly, since we would have had a very hard time selling my father’s carvings or my quarry if I couldn’t barter with the villagers.

My sisters, though they worked tirelessly trying, never quite lost their accents. But I was young enough when we arrived in that pitiful excuse for a town that, after a few months, I could almost pass for a native. If one ignored my patchwork clothes and the malnourished body that they hung off of. It was one of the many reasons, my family assured me, that I was most suited to the job of going to the market each week, though they provided no explanation as to why I should be the one to risk my life in the wolf-infested woods shadowing our house day after day.

It wasn’t lost on me, even at the time, that both Nesta and Elain resented me for my ability to fit in with the other villagers, especially since I had no interest in doing so. My ability to speak untainted English, with no trace of our rolling accent, was nothing more than a tool that I could use to feed our family; and since I was the only one making an effort to do so, I felt no remorse for my sisters’ plummeting social status. If anything, it saved us money that we could put towards food, instead of cosmetics and clothes, since there was no chance of impressing the boys in our town, who had no interest in scrawny, foreign girls playing dress-up.

My escape from that life was nothing short of a miracle disguised as a scholarship, dropped unceremoniously on our rain-slick front steps a few days before my high school graduation. I never got the chance to thank Professor Andras for giving me that opportunity, for sending my artwork to Prythian U when I would never have had the courage to do so on my own. Without him, I wonder if I ever would have escaped that suffocating, thankless life.

“You really are full of surprises, Feyre darling,” Rhys says, almost to himself, pulling me from the quicksand of my memories.

Then, as he continues his examination of the book, his face splits into a grin—the kind that, for him, usually hints at impending laughter. When he directs that radiant smile at me, handing back the novel, my heart skips a few beats. And though it’s been numb for days, I swear my left hand pulses. Just once.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“Do you remember the book I was reading at the café the other day?” I nod. “This is the author’s other series. The one I mentioned.” Again, his eyes glitter, as if he’s privy to some great and terrible secret hidden between these pages. “Seems you’re taking my advice after all, though I’ll admit, I didn’t expect to find you reading it in another language.” A thread of teasing weaves its way through his voice, rising and falling with his soft accent like the dips and hills of his nighttime music. I almost forget to respond.

I give my head a little shake. “Do you speak any French?”

“ _Un petit peu_. Not very much, though. I took Latin in university."

“I didn’t know Prythian U offered classes in Latin,” I admit. Nor why anyone would want to take them.

“It was a fairly small class, and horribly dry at times—” he chuckles at my notable lack of surprise, “—but I picked up a few things.” He clears his throat theatrically. “ _Pulchra es, amica mea._ ”

“Impressive,” I deadpan. “What does it mean?”

“I can’t tell you that, darling, or I’d be in all sorts of trouble.” He offers no additional explanation, his eyes twinkling with mirth, and I don’t demand one. I should have known better than to expect a straight answer from Rhys.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says suddenly, rising to his feet. “I just wanted to check in on you. And I know it’s not my place, but…”

He hesitates, and I raise a brow, willing him to continue.

“I’m… happy to see you out of your room.” The sincerity in his voice, in his soft smile, sends something molten seeping through my veins, thawing some of the cold that’s made its home inside me.

When I don’t respond, he turns to leave. “Wait!” I call, not realising I made the decision to do so until the word rolls off my tongue. Rhys pivots back towards me, his face the picture of benign curiosity. “You can… stay, if you want.” It comes out somewhere between a murmur and a whisper. _I’d like you to stay._

A heart-stopping grin spreads across his face, nearly stealing the breath from my lungs. I want to hate him for it.

“Give me a moment, darling, and I’ll do just that.” And then he’s gone, climbing the stairs in long, fleet strides. In less time than it should have taken him to go to his bedroom and come back, he reappears holding a battered paperback and promptly reoccupies his spot next to me. Unlike the unmarred book in my hands, his is clearly well-loved, with yellowed pages, a spine that’s been worn to nothing, and a few dog-eared corners here and there that could have been folded intentionally or by accident. But before I can catch a glimpse of the torn cover, he’s flipped it open to a bookmarked page and begun to read, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other.

I steal a few moments just to stare at his profile, relaxed and unguarded and peaceful. From a dark, forgotten part of my heart, I hear whispered, _This would make a beautiful painting_ , and for a few moments, the image shines bright and solid in my mind, perhaps as worthy of being immortalised as the crystalline winter outside. When it fades, I try to ignore my disappointment and begin rifling through the pages of my book again, trying to remember where I was before Rhys interrupted me.

Only a few minutes into our shared silence, Rhys speaks.

“Thank you. For letting me into your space,” he says simply, catching my eye for a stolen moment before returning to his book. And it was such a surprising thing to say that I completely forget to respond, though I have no idea what I would have said, anyway.

 

30.

The day drifts lazily by, Rhys and I sitting in near-perfect silence, punctuated by the flutter of turned pages or the occasional soft, private chuckle. Sometime mid-afternoon, Rhys leaves for an uncertain amount of time and returns carrying two steaming mugs of hot chocolate. He even managed to find a candy cane to stick in mine, like I did for him that day at Bloomsbury’s, and I almost chuckle when he hands it to me. But the sound doesn’t quite make it past my lips.

For a moment, he stares at me, as if he felt the laugh dissolve in my throat and wants to ask me where it went—why I let it fade. But I’m afraid of what he might say, so I quickly return my attention to my book.

When I find my spot once more, I can’t seem to focus on the words—Rhys’s odd reactions flickering through my head like a disjointed movie montage. It takes several minutes of fruitless overanalysis before I give up thinking about it, thinking about _him_ , at which point the words clear on the page, and I start reading again.

Now, the sun is kissing the horizon, and my tepid drink is only halfway finished, though the candy cane is long gone. Out of the corner of my vision, I see Mor poke her head into the room, grinning fiendishly at me for a moment before Rhys raises his head to look at her—at which point her smile loses its deviousness.

“If you two still want to come to Rita’s, you might want to get ready. I’ll be leaving in ten with or without you.”

I know she’s bluffing—she’s never left without me before—but I get up nonetheless, wrapping my blanket around my shoulders and clutching my book to my chest as I leave the sitting room. The moment Rhys fades from view, the cold slowly seeps back into my bones. I didn’t truly appreciate how much his warmth was affecting me until it was gone, and now I feel it acutely. Tightening the blanket around me does nothing to ward off the chill. The only reassurance I can offer myself is that I’ll be… near him, again, soon enough.

When I make it to my room, I find that Mor has left three different piles of clothes on my bed, saving me the effort of rifling through her endless wardrobes to find something that fits me. I silently thank her and immediately decide on the set in the middle: a long, dark blue jumper with silver stitching and a pair of black leggings. Carefully, I unfold them, and brace myself for a moment before divesting myself of my pyjamas. I shudder when the cold air hits my bare skin in the time that slips by between stripping and pulling on the garments, and it takes longer than it should for that snap of cold to withdraw from my skin. I twist my hair into a bun, not bothering to pin back the pieces falling out here and there, and head back downstairs, grabbing my purse on the way out.

Mor is already loitering by the door when I step into the foyer, and I hear Rhys’s soft footfall not far behind me. When I turn towards him, in the process of shrugging on my coat, I see him shamelessly looking me up and down. I give him an unimpressed look.

“Lovely, as always, Feyre darling,” he purrs. Reticently, I have to admit that he looks quite good, as well. Tight black jeans hug his legs, revealing the kind of lean muscle that suggests that he exercises regularly (though I remind myself that I have no reason to be staring so intently), and he’s donned another of his numerous black t-shirts. No coat or jacket of any kind is in sight, and he’s wearing spotless black trainers; it’s as if he’s anticipating a cool fall evening instead of the very real, very cold winter night that awaits us.

“Like what you see?” He smirks, and behind us, Mor tsks.

“I was just wondering why you’re setting yourself up to get frostbite—”

“Alright, save the flirting for later,” Mor interrupts, pointedly ignoring me when I scoff. “We’re going to be late if we don’t hurry up.”

I don’t point out that in our group, there is no such thing as “late”—especially given Amren’s punctual tendencies. Or lack thereof. Instead, I force myself to appear calm, not to betray how nervous I am. I barely feel the cold when we step outside, and I try to think about Azriel and Cassian and Amren, about how nice it will be to see them after weeks of isolation. But when their faces take shape in my mind, they’re contorted with pity, drowning me with prying questions and spewing endless empty platitudes; I send them away.

From somewhere to my left, I hear Rhys call, “I’ll see you guys there!” before jogging over to his own car. Once the crunch of his footsteps has quieted to nothing, Mor’s hand lands on my shoulder. Not remembering having closed them, I open my eyes to find her staring at me. There’s no pity on her face—only steely understanding.

“Are you sure you’re okay to go, Feyre?” she asks, enunciating every word with as much gravity as possible. I’m not sure I can steady my voice enough to choke out an answer, so I look her dead in the eyes, school my features into neutrality, and give her a firm nod. She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she can’t prove that I’m lying, so we keep walking. Mor knows better than to coddle me.

The snow shifts under my boots and I stare down at it, the sparkling white glowing orange in the setting sun’s warm light. When I look back up after far too short a moment, I find myself a scant foot away from Mor’s car, and my entire body tenses, all of my conviction washing away as easily as if I never had any to begin with. I can’t do this. Stuck in that tiny, compact space… I can’t. It’s all I can do not to vomit all over the snow-dusted pavement.

I try to breathe, dragging in a few deep, shuddering breaths. The freezing air feels like jagged shards of glass in my lungs, panic clawing its way up my throat. But for Mor, for Rhys, I reach a shaking hand out and grab the handle of the car door, the cold metal biting my hand like an asp.

I can’t make myself pull. I try, try to force my body to obey me…

I can’t. I shake so violently that my hand drops from the door and my knees buckle beneath me. The snow, for all its beauty, does not soften the pavement, and pain lances through me when I collide with the ground.

Mor’s hands are on my shoulders in an instant, guiding me to my feet and leading my trembling form back inside the townhouse before I realise what’s going on. Her silence sings my failure. I barely make it to my room before my body convulses and I’m heaving up the contents of my stomach into the toilet, Mor rubbing soothing circles on my back until I finish retching. I barely feel my body while she cleans me up and tucks me into bed, and I lie awake for a long time after she goes, sure that once I close my eyes, the room will close in on me, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry...


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Sorry it's been so long - uni and stuff <3 
> 
> Anywho, I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!

31.

I wake with a shuddering gasp, my heart pounding as my eyes struggle to adjust to the predawn dark. My sheets and blankets lie in a tangled heap at the end of my bed—the result of hours and hours tossing and turning, floating just above sleep as I kicked and thrashed against invisible demons. Vivid, living memories of shrinking spaces and locked doors recede slowly, though the sharp tang of metal stays fresh on my tongue for several minutes while I lay there shivering.

Despite my sorry attempt at giving my friends a night of revelry, I never crossed that final threshold into Mor’s car last night. But from the moment my fingers brushed the handle, I’ve been trapped inside. Shame burns through me, not quite hot enough to dispel the cold.

When I at last summon the strength to sit up, I spend an unknowable amount of time pressed up against the headboard, arms wrapped around my bent legs, forehead leaning on my bruised, flannel-covered knees. Only once the air is no colder than I am do I force myself to get up and go to the washroom. I don't shower—I'm shaking too hard, and worry that my knees will give out on me and send me falling onto the tiles. So I brush my teeth, wash my face, twist my tangled hair into a knot on top of my head, and trudge downstairs.

I enter the kitchen under a shroud of shame, my embarrassment nearly suffocating me. To have shown both Mor and Rhys exactly how weak I am, how utterly helpless I was rendered in the face of what, for anyone else, would have been nothing more than a fun night out… it’s too much to bear. I couldn’t even put my fears aside for one night to give them a reprieve from their self-inflicted house arrest. I’m the worst kind of friend.

Blinking away tears of humiliation, I turn on my heel, prepared to sprint back upstairs and hide in my room like the coward I am. But I don't get the chance.

Standing at the foot of the steps, and thereby blocking my escape route, is Rhysand, looking entirely too put-together this early in the morning. _Just my luck._ For his sake, I stifle my irritation, not wanting him to think that my eagerness to get away has anything to do with him. He did nothing wrong.

But when I try to sidestep him, studiously avoiding his gaze, I feel his hands gently grip my shoulders. It’s scarcely more than a featherlight touch, but it's enough to make me pause.

He gives me a long look. “Not hungry?” There’s enough levity in his voice for me to know that he isn’t chiding me. But the concern is still there.

“Not this morning, Rhys,” I whisper, stepping out of his grip as gently as he held me with it.

He trails his hand down my arm, lightly taking my hand in his, and I suppress a shiver, the warmth of his skin a fiery-hot contrast to the ice coating mine. “But I do so enjoy our little game. I’d hate to win by default.” His smile is dazzling, and his argument, however feeble, would have been convincing any other morning. Not today. When my cheeks flush red, I can’t tell if it’s his fault or a product of my unending embarrassment.

I don’t have an answer for him, nor do I possess his razor-sharp wit, so I just give him a shake of my head and take back my hand. If I could, I’d bring it with me for how warm and grounding it was in my frozen, weightless state. But just like the man to whom it belongs, it is entirely out of my reach in every way.

When he speaks again, I stop dead in my tracks, slow and sluggish though they may be.

“Please.” The desperation in his voice, even masked as it is under a pretence of lightheartedness, is perfectly evident—if only because I’m achingly familiar with the sentiment myself. My chest tightens, guilt spreading through me like poison. After failing him and Mor so completely last night, I could not be so selfish as to deny him this.

So I slowly turn back around and give him a weak, “Okay,” trying and failing to smile. But the relief and joy on his face is enough to make my attempt at happiness unnecessary.

Though I've already made the decision to follow him back into the kitchen, he takes my hand again—hesitantly, making sure I won’t flinch or run away at his touch. It is what I excel at, after all. When I ease my hand back into his, his grip is a little firmer, a little more sure, and a little more grounding—an anchor to the earth I’m so close to drifting away from.

Breakfast runs like clockwork, and our routine doesn’t deviate from what it has been over the past several days. A haphazardly constructed melon pyramid rises from the centre of my fruit-adorned plate, and he watches me intently until I put a few pieces in my mouth and swallow. Even though the fruit is fresh and juicy and bursting with flavour, my body rebels with every bite. But for him, for Mor—who arrives at the table moments later, grinning from ear to ear when she notices me selecting and eating an orange slice—I choke down a bit of food.

After Rhys needles me into eating a small banana muffin, Mor turns to me, giving me an appraising look before opening her mouth to speak. But she seems to reconsider at the last minute, changing her target from me to Rhys and asking, “Dearest cousin, would you mind giving me and Feyre a moment of privacy?”

Rhys makes a show of looking affronted, but gets up immediately and heads towards the sitting room. “You can come back in a minute,” Mor calls over her shoulder, and he gives a wave to indicate that he heard her before disappearing around the corner.

I suddenly feel very small under Mor’s gaze, soft and nonjudgemental as it is. After a few seconds, she asks, “Feyre, do you miss everyone?”

I’m taken aback by the question, and I flounder to my own defence, spluttering a _yes_ and an _of course I do,_ even though I’m not sure if I’m being entirely truthful. It isn’t that I don’t want to see my friends, or that I don’t miss their company, but the notion of going back to Rita’s…

“No, no, Feyre. That’s not what I meant,” she quickly backtracks, looking stricken. “Let me rephrase: do you think you’re ready to see them again? I know going to Rita’s is out of the question for now,” she says gently, emphasising the _for now_ in such a way that I know she’s trying to make me feel better about last night. She isn’t successful. “But would you be against having them over here tonight—or later—for a movie night or game night or something like that? You could excuse yourself whenever you wanted, and it would give you the chance to get together with everyone again. Like I told you before, I told none of them what happened, not even Rhys,” she adds in a whisper, “and you and I both know they won’t treat you any differently. It’s up to you, ultimately, but I’m happy to have everyone over if you’d be comfortable with it.” Again, a pleasant, kind expression betraying no clear preference for one option over the other.

When I don’t answer right away, she goes back to eating her breakfast, which I know is her way of saying, _Think about it,_ while taking the pressure off of me to respond immediately. I mull it over as I take small sips of water, wondering what, exactly, the right answer is for me, and for everyone else. My last attempt at altruism went up in flames, but that was no one’s fault but my own—my violent reaction had nothing to do with my friends. If I’m being honest, it wasn’t the prospect of seeing them that worried me; I was only afraid of how they would react if they picked up on my dismal state. But as Mor keeps telling me, they all know what it means to be strong in the face of adversity, and everyone understands the futility of pity. I have nothing to fear from them. And maybe seeing them would be good for me. Not to mention that it would be a nice gesture for Mor and Rhys, who, I remind myself with a twinge of guilt, haven’t met up with them for quite a while, either. I’d be doing them, our friends, and _myself_ a favour.

I don’t look up from my sightless stare at my plate when I finally speak up. “That… that would be nice,” I say slowly, “seeing them tonight.”

Mor’s smile is radiant, even out of the corner of my vision, and it does wonders for diminishing the guilt pooling in my stomach.

“Since I didn’t last time,” Mor mutters, “I’m giving you a heads up.” Before I get the chance to decipher what she means, she shouts, “Rhys, you can come back now!” I still give a start, and she shakes her head, laughing softly under her breath. I don’t smile, not sure that those muscles even work anymore, but I’m feeling much lighter than I was when I first set foot in the kitchen this morning.

Rhys swaggers back into the kitchen and takes his place beside me once more. Leaning towards me, he whispers, “What secrets were you two exchanging that were so dangerous you couldn’t share them with me?” The low purr of his lilting voice is entirely too seductive this early in the morning, and I feel my cheeks warm.

I scowl at my half-full plate, sick of my face betraying my every thought. But he makes no comment about my reddening cheeks—only waits patiently for an answer he knows he isn’t going to get.

So, it comes as a surprise for both of us when I find myself responding.

“We were exchanging highly classified womanly secrets, which you’d never understand,” I say in a mock-serious voice, and his expression is a rather pleasant mix of perplexed and overjoyed.

“Feyre Archeron, was that a joke? My, but the world is changing.” His voice resonates with laughter, and I find my lips trembling slightly at the corners. Nowhere near a smile, but…

“Shut up,” I mutter, no threat in my tone.

“I think you’d find, Feyre darling, that I know a fair few ‘womanly secrets’. Maybe I could even teach you ladies a thing or two.” My face blazes like a summer flame, Rhys’s aggravating smirk only making me blush harder. I hate him for it.

“Ew,” Mor exclaims, fake-retching. “Feyre and I have _no_ interest in knowing what horrible secrets you think you know about women.” Rhys looks endlessly amused and not the least bit offended, giving me a sideways look that clearly demands, _Do you share this opinion?_

His feline grin is so self-assured, so certain of my silent acquiescence that I retort, “Are you sure these alleged women weren’t just lying to you to get you to leave them alone?” The challenging expression on his face is dangerous, but I don’t retract the comment.

“Possibly,” he concedes, “but perhaps I could run a few by you, see if you—”

“Ok, ok, both of you _stop,_ ” Mor pleads, looking exasperated, disgusted, and amused all at once. “You’re both horrible, and if you don’t stop this ridiculous discussion immediately, I’ll be forced to separate you.”

Rhys raises his hands in surrender. “No need to make threats, cousin, especially one as cruel as that.”

I’ve had quite enough of incriminating myself with scarlet cheeks that morning, so I simply say, “I should probably shower, anyway,” then silently excuse myself. Mor’s laughter and Rhys’s low chuckle chase me up the stairs, our uncharacteristically animated conversation replaying in my mind as I stand under the hot water.

When I towel myself off and look in the mirror, my skin is scrubbed pink, but my face is still burning red.

_Damn it all._


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! Thank you so, so much for all of the lovely, heart-warming, motivating comments while I struggled with work, work, and more work. This is 90% tooth-achingly sweet family fluff, because you all deserve it after waiting so long for this chapter. Uni stuff, you know. I hope all of your lives are going well, and as usual, I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!

32.

Though Mor assured me that I could dress as comfortably as I’d like for our hybrid game and movie night, wearing pyjamas feels too much like giving up—like, somehow, it would be a confirmation of my absolute resignation. So much so that I can’t even find the energy to change out of the flannels I’ve been wearing for days. This isn’t a side of myself I want to reveal. I need to make more of an effort, if only for the night.

Ultimately, this ends up consisting of a pair of fleece leggings and an oversized, navy blue “Prythian U” hoodie, but it’s an improvement nonetheless. I braid my hair as soon as I step out of the shower, and despite the dark circles under my eyes, I don't partake of Mor’s makeup—especially given that my complexion is considerably darker than hers. I have no desire to look as ghostly as I feel.

I sigh, tuning out those dark thoughts for the moment, and head downstairs.

The sitting room, when I get there, is unoccupied save for Mor, who is sprawled out across the couch, looking quite comfortable in a pair of sweatpants and a worn band t-shirt. An array of board games and card games lay scattered across the coffee table, and the first Harry Potter movie is already queued up on the giant flatscreen TV.

Mor grins when she spots me in the doorway and bids me to join her, but since she refuses to sit up, I’m confined to the end of couch, sitting squished against the armrest with her head cradled in my lap. I roll my eyes, but she takes no notice.

“Cass and Az will be here in a few minutes,” she informs me, “and as usual, Amren gave me no indication of when she’ll be getting here.” Unsurprising _._ She opens her mouth, probably to disparage Amren for her incapability to be punctual, but the doorbell rings and I hear the front door swing open, cutting her off.

Mor looks up at me. “I’ve always wondered why they bother if they’re just going to let themselves in anyway.”

“Because, Morrigan,” Cassian drawls, his form suddenly occupying the doorway, Azriel beside him, “we have to at least play at propriety. Especially now that our posh, British brother—” Mor snorts as he mangles Rhys’s accent, “—has returned to us at last.”

“Is there any real need to point out that it isn’t working?” Azriel muses, speaking on everyone’s behalf.  

Cassian scoffs, a perfect portrait of comical indignation, and opens his mouth to retort. But his gaze catches on my hand, black brace fastened securely around it, and his expression twists into a frown. “Feyre, why is it that you’re constantly injuring yourself?” His voice remains playful, teasing, but there’s an edge in it, in the way that his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, that belies true concern.

I mentally rifle through the various excuses I’ve crafted to explain away my newest ailment, indecision plaguing me at exactly the wrong moment.

“If you’re trying for delicacy, Cassian, I’m sorry to inform you that you’re failing rather miserably,” Rhys jokes, coming into view behind his brothers and catching my eye with that same look he had at Rita’s that first night: a silent understanding that, for whatever reason, I don’t really want to discuss my injuries. I give him a discreet, thankful look, and whereas last time, he acted confused, this time, he winks. Stepping around Cassian, he sweeps into the room carrying a plastic grocery bag, then starts handing out bags of candy. Peanut butter cups for Cassian, red licorice for Mor, gummy worms for Azriel, and he tosses a bag of assorted black licorice candies onto the kitchen table. For Amren, I guess.

I’m not really hungry, but…

“Where’s mine?”

He grins and tosses me a bright pink bag full of assorted jellybeans.

I stare at the bag, frozen for a moment. I can’t remember the last time I tasted candy. Definitely not since I met Tamlin, who was constantly dieting and never kept junk food in the house, so it must have been several months, maybe more. But I do remember how much I used to love sweets as a child, when we could afford them, and what an incredible feeling it was, once I moved out, to be able to buy myself a small bag of jellybeans every now and again—and not to have to share them. A strange thing to miss, I concede. Maybe it’s just nostalgia, but some small, childlike part of me is rather excited at the prospect of digging into the multicoloured candy.

I’m not sure what Rhys thinks my prolonged silence means, since he suddenly looks a bit unsure of himself. But I quickly add, “How did you know?”

As quickly as it faltered, his confident expression smooths out. “Lucky guess,” he says with a shrug, withdrawing a second bag and ripping it open. “I made the assumption that you, like me, have good taste. I’m pleased to find that I was correct.”

I tear mine open and fish around for a few moments until I find a white one with little black spots, and pop it in my mouth. The sweet vanilla flavour is lovely—the first thing I’ve eaten in a while that doesn’t make me feel sick after I swallow.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, darling.”

While Cassian and Azriel mill around the kitchen table, filling paper plates with chips and chocolate and various snacks, Mor watches our exchange with unbridled curiosity. I don’t much like it, so I gently remove her head from my lap and get up, fetching two glass bowls from the kitchen.

When I go back to sit on the couch, I see that Mor has finally gone to join the boys in the kitchen, at last leaving me enough space to sit comfortably. And leaving me alone with Rhys. Forcing myself not to try to summon Mor back, I focus on slowly pouring my entire bag of jellybeans into one of the glass bowls.

Rhys stares at me, perplexed. “It’s easier to find the ones you want this way, and to get rid of the ones you don’t like. Have you never done this before?”

Apparently not, because he looks at me like I’m the strangest thing he’s ever seen as he mimics me, dumping his candy into the other bowl. But he pours them out a bit too fast, and a few of them bounce off of the glass and jump onto the floor. Rhys looks almost panicked as he scrambles to catch the errant candies, and a thin, breathy sound whispers through my lips as I watch him try to collect them. It’s a small, quiet thing, but Rhys turns towards me, jellybeans forgotten. Before he gets the chance to say anything about it, I put down my unharmed bowl of candy and bend over to help him pick up the mess he made.

“Rookie,” I mutter as I snag the last one, a bright red specimen, and cringe, throwing it into the empty bag.

He scoffs. “What a cruel woman you are. We can’t _all_ be expert candy-eaters, Feyre darling.” I smother my retort by popping another candy into my mouth—this time a purple one that’s supposed to be plum but tastes nothing like it.

A comfortable silence settles between us as we set about sorting through our candies. Before I eat any more of them, I pick out as many of the red ones as I can find and drop them all into the empty bag.

It seems the time for shocking Rhys has not yet come to an end. “ _What_ are you doing?” he exclaims, gaping at me and my jellybean screening process. “Why would you throw out the best ones?”

I drop another offensively red candy into the rapidly-filling bag. “They’re disgusting.”  

“Let me have them, then. You mustn’t let them go to waste,” he admonishes, giving me a reproachful look.

“Take them all—they’re horrible.” He looks like I’ve personally wounded him as I hand him the bag of little red candies, which he quickly dumps into his bowl.

“Heathen,” he mutters before selecting a bright red one and tossing it into the air. Before I get the chance to react or ask what on earth he’s doing, it plummets back down and he catches it in his mouth, giving me a smirk that’s entirely too self-assured.

“Show-off.”

His smirk widens into a grin as he performs the trick over and over. I want to look away, but I can’t seem to, which only serves to inflate his ego. I tell myself that I’m only watching because I want to make sure he doesn’t choke.

He keeps it up until the fifth throw, cringing as he chews the offending candy.

“What?”

“Cherry,” he supplies, swallowing with exaggerated effort. I roll my eyes. “Why don’t you separate them? Why throw out both flavours—unless you dislike them both?”

“I can’t tell the difference,” I answer honestly. To me, cherry and cinnamon are both just red. I should be better at detecting the nuances between colours, but I’m convinced that there really is no visible difference between the two flavours. I’ve found no evidence to the contrary.

Wordlessly, he picks up a handful of red candies and spreads them out on his outstretched (un-tattooed) palm, sorting through them for a moment before selecting two. He holds them out to me and instructs, “Hold them up to the light,” taking one of his own between his thumb and forefinger and positioning it so that one of the sconces on the wall illuminates it from behind. I do as he says, holding one up, then the other.

I notice the difference immediately: the light shines right through one, while the other is nearly opaque, the colour noticeably denser.

It’s a neat trick, but I’m not going to admit it.

“Now who’s a rookie?” he teases, his eyes twinkling as he hands me several red jellybeans—cherry flavoured ones, if he’s to be trusted.

“Which one’s which?” I ask him, but he just smirks and goes back to sorting through his candies. His silence is answer enough: _Figure it out._

And when, a moment later, I shudder as I bite into a cinnamon-flavoured jellybean, Rhys erupts into laughter. I consider pelting him with candies, but then I’d have to clean up the mess, so I settle for a hard jab in the ribs. He only laughs harder.

“What kind of antics are you two getting into?” Mor demands as she strides into the room carrying a big bowl of chips and a smaller bowl of salsa.

“Feyre just learned a lesson on the consequences of insulting professional jellybean-sorters,” he drawls, like that wasn’t the most ridiculous proclamation he’s ever made.

“Whatever,” Mor replies. “I won’t pretend to understand what you fools are talking about, but scoot over. We’re playing Cards Against Humanity.” I raise a brow, and she adds, “So you can see for yourself how much of a disreputable oaf he is,” jerking a thumb at Rhys.

“I have nothing to hide,” he insists, opening the box and deftly shuffling the cards as Cassian and Azriel stride in, each carrying a chair and setting them around the table. A third one remains unoccupied, since Amren hasn’t yet joined us, but I get the feeling that playing Cards Against Humanity with her would be entirely too dangerous. (Not to mention the fact that she would most likely win every round.)

In a rare show of extroversion, Azriel speaks up and states, “I’ll go first.” No one argues.

He clears his throat as he examines the card, and I can’t tell if it was a true cough or a laugh. “ _Blank:_ Betcha can’t have just one.”

With an apologetic grimace, I slide my card towards Azriel, watching everyone else’s reactions as they do the same: Cassian’s face remains completely stoic, Mor has already dissolved into giggles, and Rhys looks no more mischievous than usual. It isn’t very comforting.

Azriel gives Mor the chance to collect herself before reading out the horrible set of cards.

“ _Blank:_ Betcha can’t have just one.” He doesn’t look up to see if we’re listening before reading out the responses one by one. “Pterodactyl eggs.” Azriel slides his eyes accusingly towards Mor, whose giggles redouble. Once she’s calmed down, Azriel goes on, grimacing as he reads, “A cat video so cute your eyes roll back and your spine slides out of your… Rhys?” The latter shrugs unrepentantly and motions for Azriel to go on. “Gay thoughts. Yes, Cassian, we know you’re bi,” he says, though not without affection. “And that leaves… Okay, Feyre, I cannot in good faith read that out loud, so I suppose you win.”

I let out a triumphant whoop and snatch the black card from his outstretched hand, placing it safely on the arm of the couch before drawing a new one.

“ _Blank_ is a slippery slope that leads to _blank_.”

 

33.

An hour and a half later, Mor and I are tied for first place, Azriel’s in second, Rhys is in third, and Cassian’s pouting as he counts his meagre handful of winning cards. I’m perfectly fine with ending the game in a draw. Mor is not.

“We have to do a tiebreaker!” she insists. “Oh! I’ve got an idea. Rhys,” she begins, a devilish glint in her eye, “pick a black card, and Feyre and I will both try to win it. You make the call.”

“Feyre, are you fine with this arrangement?” asks Rhys, and I nod. But before he turns back to the table, his eyes fix on a spot right beside me. When I follow his gaze, when I see what he’s looking at, I almost smile. Barely a curve of my lips, and I let it fade before I face everyone again—but not quickly enough, because when I brandish my first, forgotten black card, which tips the scales in my favour to win the game, I find Rhys staring intently at me. It’s hard to ignore his beautiful, quietly joyous expression, the one I see every time he catches a glimpse of anything other than weary sadness in my face, but it’s difficult to look at. So I quickly turn away, shuffling that last, winning card into my deck.

Mor huffs, but she’s grinning. “Good game! Now, who wants dinner?” Not waiting for a response, she darts into the kitchen and returns a moment later carrying three pizza boxes, dropping them onto the newly-cleared table, the three men having packed up the game while Mor was gone.

As if summoned by the promise of hot food, the front door opens again and Amren slips inside. After a minute of shuffling sounds and muffled cursing, she strides into the sitting room, taking the last empty seat and serving herself a slice of meat lovers’ pizza before uttering anything remotely resembling a greeting.

“What god-awful weather—snow everywhere. What good are winter tires if there are no roads to drive on?” A murmur of agreement ripples through our circle as we dig in, and Mor starts the movie, gesturing for Cassian and Azriel to move to the adjacent couch, which was too far away to be conducive to game-playing, but is in comfortable view of the TV.

Mor was right, I realise. This night, which could have easily turned into an interrogation session, has been rejuvenating. The loneliness I’ve been subjecting myself to has been crippling, whether I realised it or not, and though Rhys and Mor have been unerringly steadfast and patient with me, that doesn’t mean that I haven’t missed the rest of our group. No one pities me here—no one treats me like I’m fragile. Instead, we play wildly inappropriate party games, watch movies, and fight over the best candies. Here, what I’m feeling matters, but doesn’t impede us from having a good time. I don’t feel like a burden here. This is my family.

We’re all largely quiet for the duration of the movie, save for Cassian, who seems to know the entire script off by heart, though his British accent is atrocious. A few times, when it was particularly bad, I saw him look to Rhys for approval, who always gave him a thumbs up, no matter that we all knew it was terrible—Cassian included.

I make it through the first half an hour of the movie, sliding into sleep sometime past ten o’clock, waking up a few minutes after the credits start rolling. My eyes flutter slowly open, the theme song playing in the background reminding me where I am before my eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

For a drowsy moment, I wonder why my view of the room is tilted sideways, before noticing, to my horror, that I’d fallen fast asleep on someone’s shoulder. Rhys’s shoulder.

I try not to look too alarmed as I sit up, but I straighten too fast, giving myself a head rush, and Rhys chuckles.

“It’s alright, Feyre. I won’t tell anyone you drool.” I wince, my cheeks flaring, but when I take a nervous look at his shoulder, his shirt is completely dry. He laughs when I glare at him, a grin spreading across his face. In a lower voice, he says, “I’m sure no one would mind if you wanted to head up for the night.”

I’m already thinking I might, seeing as it’s becoming harder and harder to keep my eyes open, and though I don’t need his permission, it’s still nice to hear. So I nod and get to my feet, heading through the kitchen and towards the stairs.

But before I get there, Azriel catches my eye and motions for me to go to him. He says nothing at first, only reaches into a pocket and withdraws a silver phone. _My_ phone. My mouth falls open. The screen has been replaced, and the body is no longer smashed. I know it’s only a phone—replaceable, if not affordable—but having it back is a relief.

If I weren’t bone-tired, I might have pulled him in for a hug. Instead, I thank him profusely and turn to go upstairs.

He stops me before I reach the steps.

“Feyre?” He says it quietly, disconcertingly so, and it gives me enough pause that I turn back to him.

“What is it?”

Without preamble, he looks me in the eyes and admits, “I found a tracker in your phone, when I was fixing it. It was from his company.”

Every thought leaves my mind, swept away by an immediate, jarring clarity. _That’s how he knew I was at the restaurant,_ I realise. Distantly, I know I should be shocked, angry, but all I feel is crushing comprehension and an acute sense of betrayal. All of the times he knew I wasn’t home, even when he wasn’t home himself… Maybe this was why he took my phone when he thought I wouldn’t notice: not just to keep an eye on my texts, but to make sure that he could keep an eye on me. Everything makes so much more sense now.

The thought brings me no comfort.

I run a hand down my face, and though Azriel remains serious, there’s enough gravity in his expression that I know he’s upset for me. “I took it out, rerouted it, scrambled the signal,” he explains. “He won’t be able to contact you on this phone anymore. And if he tries to track you again, the system will inform him that you’re at a hotel in Adriata.”

I don’t know how I summon the strength to move my body, but I wrap my arms around him. “Thank you, Az.”

He just nods and walks me to the stairs, waiting until I reach the top before rejoining the rest of the group.

Sleep comes to me swiftly this night, but not softly.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! I hope you enjoy this new chapter (a product of my chronic procrastination) and feel free to let me know what you thought!

34.

It was easy to quell the urge to check my phone last night when I tumbled, exhausted, into bed, shaking off the grasp of those painful truths before they got the chance to keep me awake. But when I rise the next morning, it takes little time for my curiosity to become insatiable, inflamed by the memory of Tamlin’s betrayal. 

Even the carpet is cold when I roll out of bed and pad across the room, the unpleasant bite of the air raising goosebumps on my bare arms. 

The sleek metal body of my phone is icy when I pick it up.  I take a breath, and turn it on.

When the screen lights up, a different kind of cold engulfs me. Though Azriel ensured that Tamlin could no longer reach me on my resurrected phone, he must not have seen fit to delete the crushing mass of notifications now flashing angry red warnings at me, left untouched for weeks. I scroll through them, and my heart pounds as I tally them: forty-six texts, twenty-two missed calls, seventeen emails, and innumerable social media alerts from Tamlin alone. 

Tracker or not, my phone has always been a direct line to him, where he could contact me whenever he wanted to and expect a prompt response. It seems that this mentality, for him, has not changed despite my absence. 

I don’t know what comes over me, what masochistic, guilt-driven part of me commands my body in the seconds that it takes to unlock my phone and launch the messages app. And, like a bruise that I can’t stop poking, I read through them all, my stomach clenching tighter and tighter after every vitriolic message:

Tamlin, Dec. 8, 10:14pm:  **Where are you.**

Tamlin, Dec. 8, 10:15pm:  **Come home right now.**

Tamlin, Dec. 8, 10:15pm:  **Feyre I swear if you’re not home in the next 15 minutes…**

Tamlin, Dec. 8, 10:41pm:  **I forbid you from working at that cafe anymore.**

Tamlin, Dec. 8, 10:41pm:  **Your boss is despicable. She wouldn’t let me in and said I was banned from coming back.**

Tamlin, Dec. 8, 10:42pm:  **She doesn’t scare me.**

Tamlin, Dec. 8, 10:42pm:  **It won’t stop me from finding you.**

Tamlin, Dec. 8, 10:51pm:  **If I find out you’ve gone to Mor’s house, we’re done.**

Tamlin, Dec. 8, 10:52pm:  **I’m not joking. If I wake up tomorrow and you’re not here, there will be consequences.**

Tamlin, Dec. 9, 8:02am:  **This isn’t funny. You’ve made your point. Come home now.**

Tamlin, Dec. 9, 9:19am:  **Let’s talk about this. Come home.**

Tamlin, Dec. 9, 9:21am:  **Please.**

Tamlin, Dec. 9, 11:27am:  **Why aren’t you answering me?**

Tamlin, Dec. 9, 11:45am:  **You’re being a child.**

Tamlin, Dec. 9, 5:35pm:  **I don’t deserve this.**

Tamlin, Dec. 9, 5:36pm:  **I only have your best interests at heart.**

Tamlin, Dec. 9, 5:36pm:  **You don’t need a soulmate. You have me. Am I not good enough for you?**

Tamlin, Dec. 10, 9:26am:  **Do you need an apology?**

Tamlin, Dec. 10, 10:01am:  **Fine. I’m sorry. Come home.**

Tamlin, Dec. 10, 12:39pm:  **I don’t have time for this. You’re being selfish.**

Tamlin, Dec. 10, 4:32pm:  **You have no idea what this is doing to me, Feyre.**

Tamlin, Dec. 10, 10:57pm:  **I will find you.**

Tamlin, Dec. 11, 8:51am:  **Why are you in Adriata?**

Tamlin, Dec. 11, 8:52am:  **If you needed a vacation, you know I would have taken you.**

Tamlin, Dec. 11, 8:52am:  **I’m coming to get you.**

Tamlin, Dec. 11, 9:27pm:  **I hope you understand how inconvenient this is for me**

Tamlin, Dec. 11, 9:30pm:  **I’m disappointed in you.**

Tamlin, Dec. 11, 9:31pm:  **I thought you were more mature than this.**

Tamlin, Sat, 6:49pm:  **Pack your things. I’ll be at the hotel in less than an hour.**

Tamlin, Sat, 7:26pm:  **I can’t believe you.**

Tamlin, Sat, 7:26pm:  **Did you use a fake name?**

Tamlin, Sat, 7:32pm:  **Feyre. This isn’t funny. Stop playing games.**

Tamlin, Sat, 2:55am:  **You’re not here, are you?**

Tamlin, Sat, 3:07am:  **I’m going home, and if you’re not there when I get back, so help me.**

Tamlin, Sun, 8:49pm:  **I want you to know how much money I wasted on hotels and gas trying to bring you home.**

Tamlin, Sun, 8:50pm:  **I didn’t know you could be this selfish.**

Tamlin, Mon, 6:03pm:  **What can I say that will convince you to come home? Because I’ll say it.**

Tamlin, Mon, 6:04pm:  **I’m not me without you. I need you.**

Tamlin, Mon, 6:05pm:  **You know I love you, right?**

Tamlin, Mon, 6:05pm:  **Do you not love me anymore?**

Tamlin, Mon, 6:06pm:  **Is it those men you’ve been seeing? Are they better than me?**

Tamlin, Mon, 6:06pm:  **Is it your soulmate? Would you really choose a stranger over the man who saved you?**

Tamlin, Mon, 6:06pm:  **I know I’ve been harsh. I’ll do better.**

Tamlin, Mon, 6:07pm:  **Come home. Please. I’m begging you.**

Tamlin, Tue, 10:59am:  **You can’t hide from me forever. And I know you don’t want to.**

Tamlin, Tue, 11:00am:  **You need me.**

My phone slips from my trembling hands and hits the floor—I don’t check to see if it broke. I squeeze my eyes shut until purple and blue spots erupt behind my eyelids, trying to forget what I’ve just read.  _ Come home… you’re being a child… not good enough for you… no idea what this is doing to me… I’m sorry… come home… I’m disappointed in you… I need you… I love you… I’ll do better… come home… I’m begging you… can’t hide from me forever… you need me…  _

The urge to vomit is so sudden and so strong that I barely make it to the washroom in time, heaving bouts of nothing into the toilet. Tamlin’s messages occlude any other thoughts, the threats and the guilt and the crippling thought that  _ maybe he’s right _ sending waves of nausea through me like an unrelenting tide. 

It’s lucky, I suppose, that Mor is a late sleeper, because if she hadn’t been in her room, emerging from a sleep no doubt more peaceful than mine, she might not have found me. But she does, and is immediately by my side, holding back my hair and murmuring soothing, unintelligible words that aren’t loud enough to drown out the roaring in my ears. Only once I’ve calmed down, sitting back and trying to quell my shakes, does she try to locate the source of my misery. She finds it on the floor where I dropped it, miraculously unbroken. Her fury is palpable as she scrolls through the messages, her knuckles turning white around the phone, which is perhaps in more danger of breaking in her grip than it was when it fell to the floor. 

“What would you like me to do?” she asks with cold calm. She knows what I want—I know she does—but she still waits for confirmation, waits for me to catch my breath and respond before doing anything. 

“Get rid of them. All of them. Please.” I spit it all out in one breath, and she nods, tapping the screen several times before extending my phone towards me. I don’t take it, can barely look at it, so she wordlessly slips it into her pocket.

“They’re gone. Az already blocked him, so he can’t reach you anymore, but he must not have felt comfortable deleting anything you might want to see, the stupid, noble bastard.” She shakes her head, an action suffused with anger and affection. “You tell me if anything like this happens again, alright? You aren’t alone in this. You’re safe here.” 

_ Safe. _ What a joke. I can’t fathom ever being safe—not from my own demons, my own fears, not even from Tamlin.  _ You can’t hide from me forever.  _ I know first-hand how far he can be driven to protect what he thinks belongs to him. Which was me. 

But amid all of this anxiety, all of this fear, there is something that I could do to offer him a modicum of closure. If it would prevent him from haunting me wherever I went. 

I look up at Mor, swallowing hard before I speak.

“Mor, before we…” I hesitate, the words more effortful to force out than they have any right to be.

“What do you need?”

35.

**To:** tamlin.roosevelt@primaveratechnologies.pry

**re:** no subject

 

_ I left of my own free will. _

_ I am cared for and safe. I am grateful for all that you did for me, all that you gave. _

_ Please don’t come looking for me. I’m not coming back. _

36.

I must have sat staring at the blank screen for an hour before I typed a single word. And when I finish, I’m spent. The email is short, concise in a way that I was never strong enough to be around Tamlin. But writing it drained all of my strength, each word siphoning a piece of me until it was done and… 

“Send?” Mor confirms, looking at me intently until I nod. 

And when it goes… I’m surprised to feel a weight lift off my shoulders. Hardly a true reprieve from this nightmare, but it was as if I sent some of my stress, some of my resignation and guilt and sadness away with that message. I am no longer Tamlin’s possession, and I’ve had enough—enough of guilt, of fear, of sleeping. 

“Can we… do something?” I ask, my voice a quiet rasp. After last night, after finally allowing myself the chance to spend time with everyone again, it occurs to me that I’ve been doing exactly what Tamlin was trying to do to me all along. All I wanted in those last few weeks with him was to get out, to leave the confines of that miserable apartment, even if only for stolen fragments of time. And by cloistering myself in the townhouse, I’ve been preventing myself from being a part of the world Tamlin was sheltering me from. The house suddenly feels too small. 

This will not become another place to trap me. I’m through with being held captive.

Mor looks inquisitive, likely unsure of how to respond, given the last time I suggested an outing and the horror show that ensued. “A distraction. I want to go out.” She still looks dubious, so I add, “As long as we don’t have to drive anywhere, I’ll be fine.” 

For a few moments, she silently considers my request. Then her face lights up. “How about Christmas shopping? It’s about time I break my habit of waiting until Christmas Eve to buy everyone’s gifts, and I could use your help.” 

It’s perfect. The plaza isn’t a far journey from here on foot, and the idea of actively doing something productive for the people I love is refreshing. “I’ll go get ready,” I say, already feeling brighter, as if this decision to at last breach the confines of the house has already sent fresh air coursing through me. I want this, want to reacquaint myself with the city I’ve been neglecting for so long. 

So I shower, I put on something warm and soft, and with more vigour than I’ve felt in weeks, I open the door and follow Mor out. 

 

37.

Mor and I are both red-faced and shivering by the time we enter the first store on our list. The small jewellery shop is positively radiant, cut gems and precious stones glinting in their display cases like glass boxes filled with decadent candies. We’re here shopping for Amren’s gift, no doubt. Well, Mor is—I don’t make enough in a year to be able to pay for even one of these lavish pieces. So I catalogue their colours, instead, filing away bright amethyst and deep ruby and cloudy jade for a day when I might be able to appreciate them, to find moments to use them. 

The hole inside of me is still a chasm that I’m constantly aware of: a cold, hollow nothing where there was once a veritable ocean of colour. As I feed these colours into it, I know that I might be banishing them to a place where they cannot flourish. I try not to dwell on it. 

Ten minutes and one garnet bracelet later, Mor and I step back into the cold and make our way to the next store. I let Mor lead—for all of her talk about leaving gift-shopping until the last minute, she seems awfully decisive about the stores she directs us to. We’re in and out of the bookstore before I really get the chance to peruse any of the new releases, and we breeze through the kitchen store as briskly as a winter wind, both of our pockets considerably lighter and our arms laden with shopping bags when we push back through the doors and into the snowy plaza.

The townhouse was truly becoming suffocating, and spending the afternoon breathing fresh air and visiting new and familiar places has been revitalising. I feel lighter than I have in days. 

It’s dark out by the time Mor and I get home, flurries of snow chasing us through the door and into the mercifully warm foyer as we pour into the house.  The lights are all off, so either Rhys has gone out, or he’s gone to bed.  The thought makes me strangely disappointed—if there was ever a night where I felt close to smiling, tonight might be it. And he isn’t here. 

Regardless, my heart is light and my mind is not so burdened with dark thoughts. I bid Mor goodnight and go to my room with my purchases, tucking them into the back of my wardrobe to be wrapped and labelled later. I did well today.

Then, as I’m tucking myself into bed, I hear it: Rhys’s music. 

In that moment, I’m faced with an impossible choice: do I go to him, share the spoils of my day with him, or do I take advantage of the idyllic music and let it protect my sleep? I can imagine the look of joy on his face, that soft jubilance that appears whenever one of my shadows retreats. But what would I say?  _ Hi, Rhys. I felt like smiling today and thought you might want to know. _ I’m being ridiculous. For all I know, he might be trying to sleep himself, his piano playlist set on repeat to send him into pleasant dreams. Should I go to him, all I would be doing is proving to myself how much his opinion means to me, which his ego certainly doesn’t need. I don’t need him.

Though some part of me withers with the decision, I choose to stay behind, stripping off my sweater and leggings, and, with it, my good mood. Our bond has made it hard for me to recognise which of my feelings are genuine and which are fabricated by this strange magic. Why did I even want to go to him? Why did it feel so important that he know that today, I’m not feeling as miserable as usual? When did his opinion of me, of my mood, come to matter so much? 

It’s far easier to lie with my eyes closed and my window open than to dive into the murky depths of that quandary—easier to let the sweet twinkle of Rhys’s music drown out the thoughts, to let its starlight melody sing me to sleep.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! Thank god for the end of classes, and the consequent rebirth of my motivation to write! Hopefully, I'll be able to get you guys chapters more frequently than once every *ahem* two months now that school is finished. Sorry about that... 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this newest chapter, and let me know what you think! :)

38.

“Had a bit of a lie in, did we?” Rhys drawls when I step into the kitchen the following morning, my hair damp from an extra-long, extra-hot shower. As December trudges on, the temperature continues to plunge, and when I woke, shivering, a few hours ago, I was sure that both I and my room were coated in a fine layer of frost. After closing my bedroom window for the first time since I moved in here, I treated myself to a prolonged shower under scalding water, trying to scrub out the bone-deep winter cold. Most of it washed away under the deluge of hot water, but a slight chill still prickled under my skin even after I dried off and dressed. I imagine it will always be that way. 

“You’re one to talk—did you even get out of bed yesterday?” Mor teases. “You missed a great time, by the way. Feyre and I went shopping.” 

Surprise flickers briefly across Rhys’s face, before fading back into effortless confidence and a soft smirk. “Ah yes, I’m sorry to have missed that. I was feeling rather ill yesterday morning—a stomach bug, I think.” 

That last bit of warmth lingering from my shower freezes over, a cold weight forming heavy in my stomach.

My fault. His illness was  _ my _ fault. If it weren’t for this bond… I clench my hands into fists under the table, hoping he can’t feel the sharp press of my nails into my palms. It isn’t fair that he should have to suffer for my misery. 

He barely knows me, yet Rhys has done nothing but support me since I got here. Though he has no reason to, and though he would most likely be much happier if he didn't bother, he willingly spends time with me, including me in conversations I have no business souring and treating me like I'm not a broken excuse for a person— and how do I repay him? By making him sick. If there was a way to destroy this bond, I would do it in a heartbeat, if only to release him from this contract of constant misery. 

A wave of nausea rolls through me, unbidden, and my tattooed hand throbs almost painfully. I draw my blanket more tightly around me. 

But I let none of these thoughts show on my face. I don’t look to see if Mor is being equally discreet. “That’s rotten, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t look so troubled, darling—I’m feeling much better today. Don’t I look it?” He wiggles his brows. 

“Rhys,” Mor interjects, shooting me a quick, sympathetic glance, “you’re making  _ me _ sick.” 

I avert my gaze.  _ Not as sick as I feel _ . I am poisonous, and if I don’t get this weakness, this sickness, under control soon, it's going to infect all the people I care about. I don’t think I could bear it if Rhys started sharing my fears, started being afraid of cars, of closed doors, of— 

Something occurs to me.

“Mor, what’s the date today?”

She furrows her brow. “The twentieth—why?” 

“Isn’t tonight karaoke at Rita’s?” Spats with Tamlin notwithstanding, for as long as I’ve known Mor, I’ve never missed a karaoke night. Cassian hosts it, and even though I don’t—can’t—sing, it’s a monthly tradition for us to go as a group and support him. It typically doesn’t take much persuading to get Mor up there singing, and once or twice, I’ve had the privilege of watching Azriel sing; it happens rarely, but he’s got an impressive voice. Cassian, though, blows everyone away, and it wouldn’t surprise me if half of the people who attend the monthly event come specifically to hear him sing. 

During the chaos of the last several days, I forgot all about it. But I refuse to be the reason that Mor misses out on a night of fun and music, and it would be unfathomably selfish of me to prevent Rhys from seeing his brother sing again after being separated from him for so long. 

But before I get the chance to voice this thought, Mor cuts me off with a look. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop. I won’t speak for Rhys—god knows he’s more than capable—but if you aren’t able to go, I have no interest in going. It wouldn’t be any fun without you.”

Something flares inside of me—misguided bravery, perhaps, or maybe it’s the culmination of all of my self-directed frustration—and my response is immediate and vehement. “I’m going.” 

If I can make it through a day shopping with my best friend, I can spend an evening with my closest friends at our favourite haunt. I repeat that lie in my head over and over again, waiting for it to feel like truth. Whatever it takes, Mor and Rhys are going to Rita’s tonight, whether or not I go with them. Maybe I could take the bus—a longer journey, a larger cage. If I leave early enough, I could walk, though the idea of slogging for two hours through the snow in this merciless cold is not particularly appealing. 

The thought of being at Rita’s, though, being jostled and crushed by a horde of spectators in various states of intoxication, turns my stomach. Would I even be able to stand being there? As seconds of silence roll by in the wake of my statement, it seems more and more impossible a feat. 

Mor’s response comes several moments later, as if she was waiting for me to stop sorting through my list of anxieties before voicing her opinion. “Alright.” She smiles reassuringly, though there’s lingering sadness in her gaze. I’m sure she doesn’t want a repeat of the last time I tried to accompany them on a trip to Rita’s. But there has never been a time when she didn’t support my choices, and I suppose today won’t be the day that changes. 

She turns to Rhys. “Cousin, prepare yourself for a great time.” 

Rhys chuckles softly—affectionate, but with a hint of teasing. “You know I’m always ready for a laugh.” He turns to me and explains, “Cass adored singing when we were younger, so I’m excited to see what a few years have done to his voice.” The laughter in his eyes alludes to the possibility that our vocally-inclined friend was not always so. 

“That little boy screeching Mozart at the top of his lungs has since gone through the rigorous vocal program at Prythian U, so I think you’ll find him much improved,” Mor trills, a look of pride on her face. 

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Rhys retorts. 

I don’t know what Cassian was like as a child, but if Rhys truly hasn’t seen him since they were in high school, he’s in for a shock. Cassian went from singing in the chorus in his first year to being cast as the lead in the university’s opera in their next production—and every one after that, until our graduation; and he built these karaoke nights from the ground up, recruiting members from all over the place and singing his way to notoriety. Last I heard, he already had several job offers from music schools and opera companies as far off as Vallahan, though he has yet to decide which to accept. I’ve never met a more talented singer. 

After clearing our plates, I jog back up to my room, pretending not to hear Rhys when he asks if I want to keep him company in the living room for a while. If I’m going to stand a chance at making it through tonight, I need to give myself space to calm down, to relax, to think. So I fish the spoils of yesterday’s shopping trip out of my wardrobe, as well as the wrapping paper I picked up at the bookstore, and scatter them across my bed. Wrapping presents should be mindless enough to give me something to do and time to think—to figure out how, exactly, I’m going to survive tonight. 

Being at Rita’s will be challenging enough in and of itself, but getting there? The reality of my most recent failure is still sour on my tongue, my knees still bruised and tender from colliding with the pavement. One of them gives a particularly painful throb, as if in remembrance of their betrayal that night. I grimace. If I can’t even make it into the car, then this is all for nothing. I pull the ribbon I’m curling a little too hard, and it snaps between my fingers. I toss it over my shoulder. 

Taking the bus is another option, but being stuffed into such a small space with so many strangers seems just as revulsive as being confined in a car or amid a crush of people at Rita’s. In the end, it’s just a bigger, more cramped cage. Walking suddenly doesn’t seem like such a bad alternative. 

I mull this over, coming to no new conclusions as I cut and tape coloured paper, tie bows, and curl ribbons around my friends’ gifts. For Mor, I snuck off when we were at the bookstore to grab her the latest romance from her favourite author. Sheet music for Cassian, and the best set of kitchen knives I could afford for Azriel. Most of the beautiful pieces at the jewellery store were too expensive for my budget, but I did manage to find a lovely, albeit small, pendant made of sparkling blue stone for Amren; the fine gold chain it hung from cost too much money, but I’m sure she has an abundance of them to choose from. It took me longer than I anticipated to figure out what to get Rhys, and I’m still not certain if I chose well. I haven’t decided whether it’s a selfish gift or not, but for Rhys, I chose a collection of piano CDs—among them, the newest album from my favourite pianist. I’m already worried that he’ll think it’s too sentimental, or that he’ll be upset that I’ve been secretly listening to his music through the walls, or that he’ll wonder if I hate his selection of songs and think that I’m suggesting new material. 

I sigh, giving my head a shake _.  _ Either he’ll like it or he won’t, and if he doesn’t, it isn’t the end of the world. I really need to stop spending so much time caring about what he thinks of me. I take a deep breath and will these thoughts away. 

But it still eats at me until the last sliver of the case disappears under the red and gold paper. 

 

39.

Wrapping takes me the better part of the morning, but even when I finish, I don’t go back downstairs. If Mor and Rhys pick up on how nervous I am… I don’t want to give either of them a reason to insist we stay home. Instead, I take too long applying too-light concealer to cover my dark circles, I braid and unbraid my hair until my arms get tired and my hair has dried, I pick out clothes for tonight and try not to worry about what happens if I don’t end up wearing them at all, and when I've done all of the stalling I can manage, I flop back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. I think I fall asleep for a while, though I can’t be sure for how long. 

I’ve just cracked open another book I swiped from Mor’s bookshelf earlier this week when a knock sounds on my door.

“We’re leaving in five!” Mor calls.

“Sounds good,” I shout back, and though I’m already dressed and ready, I wait a minute, taking a few deep breaths and slowly releasing the tightness in my chest. I take one last moment to steel myself, then head downstairs. 

Rhys and Mor are already by the door, dressing against the cold; Rhys brought a jacket this time, though he’s still wearing trainers, and Mor looks ready to brave a snowstorm in high fashion. Next to me, with my worn combat boots and faded blue parka, we make quite the eclectic ensemble.

I put on my boots and coat and we all head outside, wincing at the bracing chill in the air. The wind stings my face and makes my eyes water, but this time, I stare down the car the entire way towards it. I force myself not to look away, screaming at my own mind to stop panicking with every step. 

A lifetime must pass in the time it takes us to walk from the door to Mor’s car, fear coursing like electricity through my veins. 

When I’m within arm’s reach of the car, I freeze, my body refusing to move a step closer. 

_ No, no, not again. _ I have to do this. I won’t let this happen again. 

But my body won’t move, my arms staying resolutely at my side, my hands trembling from more than the cold.  _ I can’t do this. I can’t open the door. I’m _ —

“Milady,” says a friendly, calm voice as Rhys reaches over and pulls the door open for me. I think I mumble a  _ thank you _ , but allowing Rhys to guide me into the car takes all of my focus and energy, so I can't be sure. 

Just as he is about to close the door, my entire body tenses, panic seizing me, and I cry out. I don’t realise that the word that came out of my mouth was his name until the door swings open again and Rhys says, “Yes?”

Screw dignity, screw bravery, and screw the bond. “Stay, p-please.” 

He doesn’t hesitate, moving to take a seat next to me and waiting until my eyes are closed to slowly shut the car door. I blindly fasten my seatbelt, hands shaking, and focus all of my attention on not throwing up. 

“Everyone all buckled in?” Mor asks cheerfully.

Rhys responds for both of us. “Take us away.” I think I hear a small amount of urgency in his voice. 

The car lurches into motion, and I clench my hands into fists, white and yellow spots dancing behind my tightly-shut eyes. I feel like one well-placed touch would shatter me like fractured glass. 

I tense when I feel the brush of gentle fingers over the back of my hand. Without giving myself time to think, just wanting this panic to end, I grab Rhys’s hand and clutch it for dear life. My grip must be painfully tight, but he says nothing, just squeezes back and rubs his thumb soothingly over the back of my hand. I narrow in on that touch, warmth spreading through me from that point of contact the entire ride to Rita’s. 

Before I realise how much time has passed, the car jerks to a stop and Mor turns the engine off. 

“We’re here!” 

I want to weep with relief. 

Rhys doesn’t let go of me until we’re both out of the car and a few paces away from it. When I open my eyes for the first time since crawling into the car, both Mor and Rhys are staring openly at me: Mor with pride, and Rhys with a kind of tender joy. I feel a pang of guilt when I notice Rhys’s hand, clenching and slackening at his side as if he’s trying to alleviate some of the pain inflicted by my grip. I can’t seem to form my lips around an apology or a well-deserved  _ thank you _ , so I just stuff my hands in my pockets, tearing my eyes away from Rhys and his soft, heartbreaking smile, and lead the way towards Rita's. 

 

40.

When we get inside, the low stage is already surrounded by people clamouring to sign up or sneak a peek at the heartthrob currently setting up the mic. Cassian waves over at us as we pass by. Squeezing through the crowd is its own challenge, and it's a small miracle that Azriel managed to snag our table before we arrived. 

_ We’re here. I did it.  _ The fact that I’m here, at Rita’s, after living out the plot of so many of my nightmares, is almost inconceivable. I should feel elated. I know this in my bones, and I know that’s what the others will be expecting of me. But I feel… nothing. Drained of energy. Lifting my hand in greeting when Azriel catches my eye takes all of the strength as I have left to dispense, and my entire body shudders with relief when I at last sink into the well-worn booth. 

It doesn’t escape my notice that when Rhys takes a seat next to me, he perches himself on the very edge of the seat, an inch away from falling onto the floor. He’s trying to give me room. But this confinement doesn’t feel like the airless, compact space of Mor’s car, nor the suffocating madness I was expecting from Rita’s on karaoke night. 

It takes a few moments for me to decide how to phrase the request. At last, I say, “Rhys, you’re going to fall on the floor if you move any farther away from me. I don’t bite,” I add dryly. 

His gaze turns towards me, making the distance between us, slowly becoming smaller as he scoots closer, feel stifling. “Would you, if I asked you to?”

I cover my shock by glaring at him, hoping my expression reads a clear  _ absolutely not _ , even if my reddening cheeks don’t. The smirk does not fade from his face. 

He still leaves a reasonable amount of space between us, but as he moves closer, some of the tension leaves my body. I clear my throat, shrugging off my coat, suddenly a little too hot. It’s warmer in here now, the humidity emanating from the dancing crowd and the heat in my cheeks wicking away much of the outside chill. It’s quite nice, actually, even if the air is a bit sticky with the smell of sweat and ale. It’s been a while since I felt anything other than uncomfortably cold. 

Though I’m loath to admit it, some of this warmth might be coming from Rhys, too. Sitting beside him is like being next to a furnace—he radiates an unnatural amount of heat. No one else has commented on it, though, so maybe it’s just another side effect of the bond, a response to him when he gets too close. 

Or maybe at this point, I consider, I’m imagining things, blaming the bond for occurrences that could be completely unrelated. I check to make sure my wrist brace is secure, fidgeting with the coat in my lap. 

I eye the gap between me and Rhys and consider stuffing my coat there, creating some kind of barrier between us, but instead stuff it into that small bit of room between me and the wall. What good would a parka be in protecting me from his aggravating comments and unsubtle innuendos, anyway? It might even encourage him, and I don’t know how much of his insufferable commentary I can stand in one evening. So I sit in silence, trying to enjoy this new, friendly warmth without worrying about where it comes from. 

 

41.

As the night drags on, as Cassian and Amren join us and we lapse back into our easy way of conversation and binge on greasy pub food, I begin to calm down. The sounds of the bar, the voices of the singers and the shouts from the audience, recede into the ambience, the vibrating background music no longer overwhelming me the way it threatened to when I first walked in. It’s almost like nothing has changed. Almost.

One by one, people are called up to sing, and everyone at our table (save for Amren, who made it clear that she’d rather claw her own eyes out) takes a turn performing. Mor’s hopelessly out-of-pitch rendition of  _ Don’t Go Breaking My Heart _ is made considerably more enjoyable by Azriel, her duet partner, who more than makes up for what Mor lacks in musical proficiency. The applause is enthusiastic and punctuated by several whoops from the fairly inebriated audience, as well as an impressive whistle—the kind with fingers involved—from Rhys. 

I flinch involuntarily at the sound, then cringe as he turns to me, brows drawn together in concern. I wave him off. “Just warn me next time.” 

He dips his head in a mock bow. “Duly noted. I can teach you if you like.” 

“Who said I can’t whistle?” I retort without thinking. Never mind that I can’t actually whistle. 

Rhys lifts a brow, amused. “I apologise for my presumption, darling. I’d be happy to be proven wrong.” Across the table, I see Amren roll her eyes over her wine glass. 

Part of me wants to refuse, but I don’t know that it would preserve my dignity any more than trying and failing would. So I wait until the next performance is over; then I bend my fingers in what I hope is the right shape and blow as hard as I can.

No sound comes out. 

Rhys chuckles. I glare at him, placing my fingers in my mouth to try again. I take a deep breath, and the moment I release all of the air in my lungs, Rhys gently pivots my wrist. What was initially a silent puff of air turns into a piercing whistle that splits through the din of the crowd; the woman onstage turns towards me and grins. 

When I turn back towards Rhys, he looks primed to say something ridiculous and cocky. But he doesn’t get the chance before Cassian strides onstage and the applause turns into a deafening roar. 

“Hey, guys,” he calls, pulling the microphone off of its too-short stand, and waves a hand at the audience. “My name’s Cassian—” another cacophonous cheer, “—and I’ll be singing a favourite of mine tonight. Sing along if you know the words.” He winks at a pair of girls at the front, and I swear, one of them faints. 

The intro starts playing, and as the lilting melody falls from his lips, the crowd quiets. Cassian’s voice is spellbinding, and when I glance over at Rhys, he looks absolutely awestruck. A small smile plays about his lips as he sways to the music, his fingers tapping a soft rhythm on the table. I can feel the phantom reverberations in my hand each time a finger strikes the table, like the song has a second, softer beat. The wonder on his face, in his eyes, I can almost feel it radiating from him.

_ “Falling slowly, sing your melody. I’ll sing along.” _

It isn’t until the last line of the song echoes through the room and the crowd explodes into cheers that I realise I’ve been staring at Rhys the entire time.

Rhys stares at his brother until the last of the applause drains away and Cassian steps off the stage, jogging over to meet Mor and Azriel at the bar. He doesn't even turn around when I perform a successful whistle, fingers and all, still gaping at the now-empty stage. 

So softly I’m not sure he spoke at all, he murmurs, “Holy shite.” 

His accent, the way it turns the quiet, heartfelt curse into something nearly elegant in execution, paired with his hypnotised expression… I know the feeling. That’s how I felt the first time I saw Cassian sing, though I’m sure it was something more for Rhys, given that this is his brother. I smile a bit. 

He shakes his head, as if surfacing from a trance, and faces me. “You weren’t joking,” he says, voice still laced with awe. 

“Not the boy you remember?” I tease, remembering his less-than-glowing description of Cassian’s singing during his youth. 

“Decidedly not,” Rhys laughs, glancing across the room at Cassian, who is currently sitting at the bar with Az and Mor—equally chatting with him and fending off some of his bolder admirers. “I’m much less inclined to go up there now, I must say.” 

I elbow him in the side. “That’s not like you. I’ve never seen you miss an opportunity to show off.” 

“It would hardly be showing off after that performance,” he says.

“Go on, you know you want to,” I tease, giving him a light shove. “Look, the stage is empty.” 

After giving me a considering look, he sighs dramatically. “Alright, you’ve convinced me. Prepare to be amazed,” he adds with minimal conviction as he slides out of the booth. 

Though he doesn’t match his brother in terms of singing talent, he has a decent voice, and his performance of  _ Tenerife Sea _ is quite lovely. But I can barely focus on his singing. I’m far too preoccupied with the fact that I was right about the source of the room’s heat, after all. It had been easy to forget what it was like to be cold after getting comfortable, but now that Rhys is gone, that warmth is, too. 

By the time he gets back, I’m more on edge than I’ve been all evening. The room feels louder, like someone turned up the volume all of a sudden, and I have the immediate, overwhelming desire to go home. I can’t remember what it was like to be calm.

Rhys notices. 

“Missed me that much, did you?” He takes a seat in the booth beside me again, and immediately, that sense of anxiety slips away, taking that intrusive cold with it. My hand pulses beneath my brace, a wave of warmth coursing up my arm. 

I don’t answer him. I’m tired, and I'm sick of having the only person I should be staying away from be the person I feel the safest around. I need to learn to deal with this anxiety on my own. This… reliance on him is only going to get me into trouble. 

I scowl down at my lap, avoiding his playful gaze. 

He doesn’t give up on needling me. 

“Do you want to go home?” 

My heart stutters. For the first time since he sat down, I look up at Rhys, perplexed. It takes me a few moments to understand that he means the townhouse, at which point I quickly correct my surprise. I thought he was offering to take me to Tamlin’s apartment. The last time I was here, at Rita’s, that was what  _ home _ meant to me. It seems like a lifetime has passed since then.

I nod, not meeting his eyes. 

But when I take a look around, Mor is nowhere to be found. The crowd has thinned out considerably since we got here—people started filing out right after Cassian performed—and Mor has disappeared, leaving Cassian and Azriel to nurse their drinks alone at the bar. 

“We can’t go without Mor,” I say, trying not to let disappointment leak into my voice. 

Rhys looks towards the bar and smiles conspiratorially. “Trust me, she’s got a ride home. And I’ve got her spare key.” 

I look back towards the bar, not seeing anything particularly telling as to where Mor disappeared to. Then, emerging from the hallway that leads to the washrooms, I spot a blonde head, a coy smirk on her too-red lips. The bar’s owner, equally kiss-swollen and flushed, is a step behind her, gripping her hand. They vanish around the corner a moment later. I snort. 

“Looks like she’s well taken care of,” I concede, gratefully putting my coat on. With a half smile, Rhys slides gracefully out of the booth and leads me towards the door. I’ve never been more thankful that the bar is nearly empty, leaving no crowd left for us to wade through on our way out. 

When we step outside, Rhys reaches for my hand, and it occurs to me just in time that I really don’t want to find out what it would feel like—for either of us—if our tattoos were to touch. So I reach into my pocket, pretending to check for my wallet. Then, in a surge of bravery and the exhausted thought of  _ I’ll do what I want and damn the consequences _ , I pretend to fall back; then when I catch up with him, I come around to his other side and slide my hand into his. He grips it the entire way to the car, and the length of the drive home, though I still can’t bear to open my eyes. I feel like I’m breathing around a vice in my chest. 

“You told me you that you knew this city’s best-kept secrets,” he says suddenly. “Are you all talk, darling, or are you planning on showing me?” His question surprises me, pulling me out of my own mind, and my gaze snaps to his face. The reflex to dismiss the offer, to put it off until after the panic of the car ride subsides, is strong. But a small voice in the back of my mind, less hostile than I’m used to, whispers,  _ Maybe this is exactly what I need. _ A reason to get out, to reintroduce the city to myself—and to this man, who hasn’t lived here since he was a teenager. 

“When are you free?” I blurt before I can change my mind. 

His face lights up; he makes no effort to hide how pleased he is with my response—not quite an affirmation, but neither is it a dismissal. “I’m free whenever you are, darling,” he says smoothly. 

“Maybe not tomorrow.”  _ I’m too tired. _ “How about the day after?” 

“Perfect. And where will you be taking me?” 

I don’t respond; it feels good to be able to keep a secret from him for once. 

“I see. I’ll dress my best, then.” 

“Something other than a black t-shirt, then?” I tease.

He looks affronted. “Just you wait, Feyre.” 

It takes me a moment to realise that the car is no longer moving and that it hasn’t been for some time. The thought swiftly propels me from my seat and out the door. But the panic never quite surfaces. 

He falls into step beside me as we walk up the laneway to the house, his hand on the small of my back. 

“So, where will you be taking me?” he asks again as he fits the key into the lock and swings the door open, waiting for me to go in before following.

“Be patient.” 

“One of the few things I don’t excel at, I’m afraid,” he laments. “Indulge me?”

“No,” I say simply. 

“At least give me a hint,” he implores, trailing me up the stairs.

When I reach the landing, I turn to him. “Fine. We’re not driving there.” That much should be obvious by now. 

The expression on his face is soft, assessing. But I see no judgment in his eyes. When he doesn’t answer, I turn towards my room. 

I feel his hand brush my arm before I stride through the door.

“Feyre?” His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.

I turn back around.

“Nice job tonight.” 

My heart does something strange at the words. I hear the second, unspoken part of the statement as clearly as if he said it aloud:  _ I never doubted you. _

But I have no idea what to say to that. So I say nothing, and slip into my room without a word. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, lovelies!! Thanks again for being so patient with me; I've been working full-time all summer, and I haven't had nearly as much time as I'd have liked to work on this fic. Hopefully, I'll get more chapters out to you all when school starts, since I've got quite the proclivity for procrastination... 
> 
> Regardless, I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!

42.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been this restless. Sitting around the house, looking for something—anything—to do and, by and large, not succeeding, becomes more and more excruciating as the morning trickles slowly by. I finished that French book days ago, and though I could just as easily pick up another book and while away the day reading, I just can’t sit still. After spending a half hour combing through Mor’s wall of bookshelves, taking my time, trying to fill up the empty morning, it becomes apparent that she doesn’t own the sequel. Not that I’m in any fit state to read, mind. I sigh, blowing a stray lock of hair out of my face. A jittery sort of energy keeps me in a state of perpetual, unabating boredom, not fuelling me enough to do much or accomplish anything, but enough to quell my ability to lounge around. It’s maddening.

I’m inordinately grateful when, sometime mid-afternoon, Mor interrupts my aimless pacing around the sitting room and enlists me to assist her with Christmas decorating. She’s hosting this year, and with Christmas just days away, it’s about time to spruce the place up. Giving me a job to do should help extinguish my miserable boredom, at least for a while, but despite her insistence that I’m particularly suited to this creative endeavour, it isn’t long before I discover how truly useless I am at this task. It stings, remembering past years, how beautiful I made the apartment look after a day left alone to decorate, the pride in Tamlin’s eyes when he took in our small space, positively brimming with light and colour and holiday spirit. Today, my hand hovers, indecisive, as I try to decide which bauble to hang from which light fixture, where to hang various seasonal paintings, over and over and over again. An instinct that used to come naturally. Mor bustles around me, winding red and green fairy lights around the banister and draping tinsel wherever she can reach with none of my insecure hesitation.

After another endless moment trying and failing to decide where to hang a crumpled paper snowflake, Mor takes pity on me. “What about up there?” She points to a wall sconce right in front of me that, though I was staring at it, I hadn’t noticed. Silently, I tape the decoration beneath the light, feeling strange and chastened. I let Mor direct me for the remainder of the afternoon, ignoring her encouragement and pretending I believe her when she says it’s only because she’s too short to reach the right spot for this ornament or that one. It’s easier than trying to confront the inarguable fact that I’ve all but lost who I am. My vision, my eye for colours and patterns and designs, is gone. Another thing my cold, wide chasm has swallowed.

All told, the house sparkles and glows with festivity when Mor and I are done—no thanks to me—and the walls are covered not just with lights and glittering tinsel, but with old holiday paintings I made when I was in a better place. Thankfully, Mor didn’t make the mistake of asking me to paint anything new this year, as has been the unspoken tradition in years past. Broken, now.

Once Mor has affixed the last decoration—a wreath made of sprigs of holly, bright red flowers, and fragrant cinnamon sticks, hung neatly on the front door—I think I may finally be tired enough to get a bit of rest. Mor, still brimming with energy and high spirits, leaves me be, kissing me on the cheek before rushing out the front door like a brisk winter breeze, and I lie down on the couch and let my eyes flutter shut. In this new quiet, the soft murmur of Christmas carols floats through the room, wrapping gently around me, and I fall into a fragile sleep.

 

43.

I’ve only just nodded off when I jerk back awake, sleep shattered by the sound of the front door crashing open. A series of grunting noises ensues, followed by a litany of curses as some unknown object smashes to the floor. Blearily, I rub my eyes and trudge over to investigate.

Dwarfed by a Christmas tree easily twice her size, Mor stands snow-caked in the doorway, panting as she drags it across the hallway, covering the floor in pine needles and rivulets of icy water. A frozen gale blows through the open door, and I rush to close it. The house is cold enough as it is. Or maybe it’s just me.

How the two of us, one quite diminutive, the other hardly able to carry her own weight from exhaustion, manage to set up the enormous tree in the living room is beyond me. Once it’s upright and solid in its stand, more decorating ensues, another hour or so hanging up a miscellany of ornaments and untangling more coloured lights under Mor’s direction. By the end, I’m about ready to fall off the stepladder. After finally succeeding at wrestling a glowing white star onto the top of the tree, catching it each of the three times it topples off before I’ve finally secured it, I make my excuses and drag myself back to my room. And though I would have been enormously grateful for the chance to get some rest when I was jittery and restless earlier, it’s with a feeling of defeat that the last of my energy slips away as I crawl into bed. I sleep through the rest of the afternoon.

 

44.

When I wake, it’s nearly dark outside, my room suffused with an orange glow as the sun slips further down the sky. And though I would hardly say I feel well-rested, neither am I tired, and that prickly, uncomfortable energy is back.

I roll out of bed and cross the room to the window, closed against the cold. Though it was frightening initially, no longer having that fragile tether to the world outside, now that the temperature has maintained some consistency at nearly thirty degrees below freezing, I can no longer justify keeping it open.

A gust of wind lifts snow off the windowsill, sending a cloud of white drifting down to the street below like a fall of glittering sugar. I shiver involuntarily. If only it were that easy to dispel this nervous energy, to simply carry it away on a frozen breeze.

For the first time in weeks, I’m… fidgety. I can’t stand it. Looking outside at the somnolent city, my heart aches. I would do anything, trade anything, for the chance to get out of the house. As it stands, though, I can’t stomach the thought of going alone, of risking the kind of vulnerability involved in walking alone through the city. Where he might be. So I’m stuck here until tomorrow night, until my… outing with Rhys.

Armed with a book and minimal faith in my ability to sit still and read it, I return to the sitting room, planting myself firmly on the couch and opening the novel to the first page. But before I’ve even absorbed the first sentence, my thoughts drag me elsewhere: to the inevitable chaos of Christmas day, to the dreary weather outside and the itch to delve into it, to my plans for tomorrow.

Part of the reason I refused tell Rhys where I was planning to take him was that, in the space of that inexplicable moment of courage, I hadn’t really had the time to decide. But a day of near-solitude with little save my own thoughts for company has yielded a few workable ideas. It’s been a while since I visited the old district, and maybe aiming a little further than the nearby plaza would be good for me.

I’m not sure how much time has elapsed when, halfway through the first page of this new book, Rhys materialises in front of me, emerging from I don’t know where in that odd way of his.

“Feyre, fancy seeing you here,” he drawls. “Ha—”

“Are you free tonight?” The words tumble of my mouth before I have the chance to contemplate their wisdom. All I know is that if I have to stay another moment cooped up in this house, I might go mad. And here’s my chance to remedy that. “I’m sick of sitting around,” I explain. “I need to do something.”

He lifts a brow, puzzlement clear in his face, but recovers quickly. “No need to be coy, darling. There’s no shame in admitting you’re eager to spend time with me.”

I give him a flat look. “Just give me a minute to get changed.” I’m still in my pyjamas.

Rhys doesn’t really need to change—he looks fine—but he follows me upstairs and disappears into his room, emerging when I do a few minutes later wearing a navy blue button-down shirt and trim black trousers. After a quick deliberation, I decide on the outfit I didn’t get the chance to wear to Rita’s that first mortifying night: a warm, dark blue sweater, lanced through with silver thread, and pair of black fleece leggings. Hopefully, tonight won’t end similarly.

“Are you alright with walking there?” I ask on our way down the stairs. My voice comes out smaller than I intend when I add, “I know it’s cold.” But, cold or not, if this is going to work, I can’t risk having another breakdown. I know my weaknesses, perhaps a little too intimately, and getting in that car is a foolproof way to ensure that I utterly humiliate myself. Again.

“That's hardly a problem, darling. We’ll just have to keep each other warm.” He winks, unsubtle as always.

I lift my eyes heavenward. _Ridiculous man._ It wouldn’t surprise me if he was completely incapable of _not_ making lewd jokes around me. I suppose he gets a kick out of flustering me, making me blush against all efforts to the contrary. Not that it means anything.

Regardless, my irritation with him and his teasing is mitigated by profound relief. He seems completely unperturbed by my imposition, and I feel the weight of guilt lighten somewhat. Despite my relative success last night, I’m grateful that he isn’t insisting on driving, despite it being a considerably speedier, warmer, wiser mode of transportation. Somehow, though, in retrospect, I can’t picture a scenario where he’d try to change my mind. I don't know why. 

And because I didn’t last night, though I’m aware that I most definitely should have, I mumble a soft, “Thank you.” It isn’t enough, but I offer it anyway.

“Anytime,” he says with a shrug. “Besides, I could use the exercise—I’m a bit out of shape.” I snort, trying and failing to conceal my disbelief and realising my mistake a moment later, when a slow, feline smile spreads across his face. Bond or not, that little laugh gave away exactly what I was thinking, and I glare at him, unreasonably irritated with myself. I’m rapidly learning the folly in stroking Rhys’s ego; it never, ever bodes well for me.

After busying myself with my boots and coat for as long as I can manage, I force myself to look him up and down the way he’s done to me countless times and spit, “Looks like it,” turning away from him as my cheeks flare.

He chuckles, sounding far too pleased, then swings the door open, a blast of cold air rushing in to greet us. “Shall we?”

 

45.

Despite the cold, we walk unhurriedly, Rhys trailing a few paces behind me, drinking in the city like a fine wine. It’s almost endearing, the way his gaze darts from shop to shop, watching the people passing by, like he’s never seen anything more entrancing in his life. I’m not sure I have, either, his sharp, aristocratic profile perfectly at odds with the boyish wonder in his face.

But it’s hard to ignore the sharp prickle at the back of my neck, the compulsion to look over my shoulder at every turn as we walk through the plaza. Four times, flashes of golden hair in the corner of my vision make me go rigid, and I have to focus all of my effort on keeping my strides unfaltering. It’s a mercy that Rhys is so mesmerised by the city, distracted enough to grant me this private vulnerability.

Perhaps not distracted enough.

“Feyre, are you alright?”

I take a deep breath, shoving my hands in my pockets to hide their trembling. “It’s just… I haven’t been here in a while.” A partial truth. Every face looks like his, every accidental touch from a passing stranger leaving me shaken, wondering if it was him, if he’s tracking us, waiting for just the right moment to steal me away. My body is not my friend tonight, less and less willing to carry me forward as the night drags on, inventing spectres from the shadows of buildings, corners untouched by the streetlamps’ golden glow. Sheer stubbornness and the creeping threat of shame should I elect to turn back now are the only things propelling me forward, down another winding street that I fear may never end.

When I don’t elaborate, Rhys drops the topic. “It’s beautiful here,” he says instead, looking back towards the plaza, at the great, sparkling evergreen at its centre. I didn’t even notice it. “I’m glad we walked.”

 _Me, too,_ I don’t say; “I’ve missed it here,” I offer instead. That, at least, is true. I wonder how Bloomsbury’s is doing, if Alis is working herself to death as the holidays approach, if James has managed to flirt his way to a boyfriend in time for Christmas. The pang of guilt and longing for the little cafe, my safe haven for so long, nearly steals the breath from my lungs. I shut those thoughts away.

I look around at the bright, bustling plaza, trying to distract myself. The few people milling around pay us no mind, weaving in and out of shops and taking pictures by the glittering Christmas tree, powdered with snow like a fine dusting of icing sugar. Still, I can feel eyes piercing the back of my head no matter which way I’m looking. I worry my lip between my teeth. When Rhys turns away, once again captivated by the nocturnal splendour of the city, I throw another quick glance over my shoulder. The lack of visible pursuers does little to soothe my unease.

Distracted by my unabating paranoia, I don’t notice the slick patch of ice until I step right on top of it. I yelp as my feet fly out from beneath me, sending me sprawling to the ground and landing hard on my back. Rhys’s lunge to catch me comes a moment too late, though he somehow manages reach me in time to cup my head so I avoid smashing my skull on the ice. His hands likely suffered that fate instead.

My chest spasms, pain radiating up from my back as cold, wet slush seeps through my clothes. I drag in breath after uncooperative breath, and by the time my body finally relaxes, letting some air trickle back into my lungs, my leggings are soaked, my coat covered in filth.

I accept Rhys’s outstretched hand, letting him pull me to my feet and looking anywhere but his face. But he must have underestimated just how slippery the ground is, because when he takes a step forward to help me the rest of the way up, he, too, falls prey to the ice and collapses gracelessly on top of me.

For a moment, we both lay still, neither of us seeming to breathe. He’s unnaturally warm, even now in the formidable cold of late December; it’s possible that I’m imagining it, but the air no longer feels so bitter, the icy water saturating my clothes a distant discomfort for the moment. The fact that I’m starting to have trouble breathing under his weight notwithstanding, I can’t seem to make myself move to roll out from under him. (To be fair, he also seems disinclined to remove himself.)

He’s close, though, too close, his face mere inches away from mine. I try to avoid his gaze, but with nowhere else to look unless I want to press my cheek to the ice, my eyes find his. Even this close, I can’t decide what colour they are, his irises seeming to flicker between rich violet and deepest blue in the low light, shot through with thin streaks of silver. _Like shooting stars_ , I think absently. It’s as if someone captured a galaxy, shrunk it down, and gave it to him for safekeeping. Ringed with dark, cruelly long lashes, his eyes are mercilessly beautiful.

A shiver, involuntary and violent, travels down my spine, my body suddenly remembering the freezing water saturating my clothes. It’s jarring enough to sever eye contact, my gaze dropping to his lips for a moment too long before aiming somewhere over his shoulder. Heat blooms through me, and I lie as still as possible, hoping against hope that he can’t feel how hard my heart is beating. The colour in my cheeks could be from the cold, for all he knows.

Rhys finally puts some space between us, propping himself on his elbows, and grins unabashedly at me.

“Well, Feyre darling,” he purrs, “it looks like you just fell for me.”

“Hardly,” I retort, finding comfort in my newfound ire as I try and fail to shove him off. “Do you mind? You’re crushing me.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling out of him and through me as I lay squashed and freezing beneath him, before he finally gets to his feet. This time, I ignore his offer of a helping hand, cautiously standing up on my own and promptly moving away from the ice. I start walking as quickly as I dare, watching where I step and trying to purge thoughts of Rhys’s eyes and—god help me—his lips from my mind.

Though I mean to outpace him, to avoid any more of his remarks, his legs are longer, and he’s almost as stubborn as I am. He catches up with me easily.

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

I turn towards him, glaring daggers at him. His hands are already lifted in a surrender I know he does not intend to give me, but I ignore them.

“You got the quote wrong,” I remark, knowing little else to say when my cheeks are still burning from cold and confusion and my heart is pounding from more than just exertion.

“You must be mistaken,” he says, feigning shock. “Haven’t I told you? Shakespeare’s an old friend of my great-great-great-grandfather. Or was it my great-great-great-great-grandfather?” He pretends to look pensive. “No matter. The point is, we go _way_ back. I can’t possibly have botched it.”

I roll my eyes. “Interesting. Should we move on, then?” I suggest, already walking away from him and his dramatics. “We have places to be.”

“Lead on, darling.”

 

46.

With my wet clothes no longer protecting me from the winter wind, the night has become unbearably cold. Shiver after shiver shudders through me, fingers of ice dragging down my legs. My knees wobble, and my teeth chatter violently, but I push forward, drawing my wet coat tighter around me to no great effect, not looking back to see if Rhys is still following. If I stop moving, I may not be able to start up again.

Something heavy falls across my shoulders. I draw in a sharp breath and whirl around, my heartbeat ratcheting up as nightmarish images of an invisible pursuer spring to life, and realising a moment before I’m faced with a grinning, jacket-less Rhys what, exactly, now covers my useless, waterlogged clothing. Under the fur-lined leather of Rhys’s coat, some of the cold begins to wick away, and without thinking, I draw it more tightly around me.

Though _thank you_ is the first thing that comes to mind, and though the idea of giving Rhys his jacket back is immediately abhorrent, what falls off of my tongue instead is, “You should k-keep it. Y-you’ll freeze to d-death.”

He doesn’t bite. “I think you’re in far greater danger of that than I am, darling. Besides, you can just warm me up. Actually, I rather like that idea. Shall we venture on?”

I glare at him, relieved despite myself. Between his overlarge jacket, still warm from his body, and the heat flooding my cheeks, the winter air loses some of its malice, and the final few minutes of our trek through the city pass quickly, quietly, and uneventfully.

We turn a final corner onto a street lined with old buildings and shops, beautiful in the way of old architecture, untouched by gentrification and left to age gracefully. Some of them are so decrepit that they can only be abandoned, making a fine home for various critters in the warmer months and providing a convenient hideaway for the odd curious teen. But a few business remain open and thriving: a generations-old bakery home to Prythian’s best pastries, a vintage clothing store that wasn’t always vintage, a restaurant here and there whose recipes might be older than the buildings themselves.

Our destination sits nestled between a used bookstore several decades older than I am and a quaint little coffee shop, both closed for the night. The buttery scent of fresh-popped popcorn spills out from the open doors as I lead Rhys into the old movie theatre. Flickering fluorescent lights sporadically illuminate the movie posters lining the walls of the entryway, yellowed with age and curling at the corners in their shadowboxes.

I turn around and find Rhys’s eyes on me, a small smile on his lips.

“What?”

He shrugs. “I’m rather chilly. Might we step inside?”

Though the theatre’s antechamber is warmer than the spiteful cold outside, it isn’t exactly toasty. And I’m still wearing Rhys’s jacket, leaving him bare-armed and unprotected from the chilly air.

I move to take it off, but he shakes his head. “Keep it. You look rather good in it.”

I scowl at him. His relentless teasing is beginning to grate on my nerves. But he’s unrepentant, giving me a cocky grin before turning away to examine the posters.

Starting to feel the slight chill myself, I grab the handle of the inner door and push.

And push.

It doesn’t move.

I give it another push, then a shove, but it doesn’t yield. It’s locked.

“Sorry, missy,” says a gravelly voice inches from my ear, and I nearly jump out of my skin. An elderly man stands a bit too close to me, smiling ruefully. I take a large step back. “Theatre closed an hour ago,” he explains, needlessly indicating the locked inner doors. “Come back tomorrow.”

My heart sinks. Of course it's closed. I don’t know why I thought this would work. Clearly, spontaneity is not something I’m capable of.

My back has started to ache where it collided with the icy ground, and I can no longer ignore my wet clothes, which feel like they’re hardening to ice around my legs. I just want this failed endeavour to be over. But the notion of walking back home now, not even having watched the movie I dragged us here to see, makes me want to cry.

Rhys looks at me, alarmed, and I know he wants to know how he can fix this. But he can’t. This failure is on me. “Come on. Let’s g-go home.”

Not waiting for a response, I turn on my heel and stride back the way we came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, and feel free to let me know what you thought! (Poor Feyre...)


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies!! Thanks so much for waiting, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of the fabulous comments. Your encouragement keeps me going <3 
> 
> Enjoy, and let me know what you think!!

47.

Rhys reaches for my hand as I rush out the door, but I pull away.

“Feyre,” he starts; I cut him off.

“Don’t. Just… don’t”

“It’s not your fault. How could you have known—”

“I couldn’t have,” I snap, whirling to face him. “That’s the point. I keep trying, and I keep failing. I can’t win. I can’t _beat_ this."

“Want me to go back and pick the lock?” he offers unhelpfully, giving me what I’m sure he thinks is a winning grin.

“Let’s just g-go,” I say through chattering teeth, my rage icing over as the winter chill sets back in. Gusts of bitter wind slice through my clothes like shards of glass, stinging my skin and making my eyes water; I start moving before my legs completely lose feeling and give out from beneath me. The crunch of ice at my back is my only indication that Rhys is trailing me as I charge in the direction of home.

With every step back towards the townhouse, my rage and disappointment evaporates, consumed by the voracious, prickling fear that dogged me on our way here. The only thing preventing me from succumbing to it, stopping me from compulsively checking the plaza and surrounding alleys for pursuers, is the knowledge that Rhys has a clear view of me as he follows me down the street. My heart beats hummingbird-quick; my whole body trembles with the effort of not turning my head.  

My stomach swoops as I take a wrong step and slip on another patch of ice, and a rough sound somewhere between a laugh, a cough, and a sob bubbles out of me as I right myself. I don’t understand why, all of a sudden, I can’t see until I feel rivulets of warmth trickling down my face. Frustrated, I swipe the tears away, taking a few deep, uneven breaths. If I start crying now, I won't be able to stop.

“You need sweets, I think.”

I flinch, whirling towards the source of the voice. It’s only Rhys, looking at me with devastating empathy on his face as he watches me calm down. I didn’t even hear him come up beside me.

Once I’ve composed myself, once my stuttering heartbeat evens out, I level a glare at him. “Leave me alone, Rhys.” I’d give anything to be home right now, and his stubborn optimism won’t change that.

He pouts. “It’s hardly my fault the theatre was closed. Nor was it yours, might I add.”

“It’s not about that,” I growl. Surely, he must know that. “Just leave me be.”

“Not a chance,” he says, then sweeps me off of my feet—literally.

I yelp, the sound echoing down the lane and bouncing off the icy cobblestones as Rhys lifts me into the air, his arms sliding around me and pulling me close. He nearly loses his balance, and panic at the thought of crashing to the ground is enough to instantly silence me and my tumultuous thoughts for the moment; but he straightens, his arms tightening around my back and ribs and under my knees as he pivots back towards the theatre.

“Put me down, Rhys!” I yell, finding my voice and beating against his chest.

“I promise I won't drop you,” he assures me, ignoring my thrashing. “Though you're making it rather difficult to stay upright.”

I ignore him, continuing my attempt to squirm out of his arms as he makes his way back down the street; he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stop walking, and doesn’t return me to the ground. What he means to accomplish by hauling me back to the theatre, I have no idea, but—

My stomach clenches as Rhys’s arms loosen, and I throw my arms around his neck as he drops me…

Maybe an inch. I scowl at him, at the soft laugh that tickles my ear before he secures me close to him again.

“Asshole.”

Eventually, I quit trying to break free of his hold, not loving the idea of causing us to tumble to the ground. He’s doing an admirable job navigating the icy cobblestones, and I don’t want to push our luck by knocking him over. In truth, I’m surprised he’s managed to stay upright for this long.

“You’re shaking,” he says, his voice whisper-soft and concerned.

“I’m f-freezing, and my clothes are w-wet,” I retort with as much dignity as I can manage. Rhys’s body is solid and warm against mine, but the wind is cruel, even if his back is taking the brunt of it.

“We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” I demand, exasperated. “The th-theatre? We already kn-know it’s closed.”

“Am I not allowed to keep secrets from you, Feyre?” he asks softly, his lips a hair’s breadth from my ear. A shiver unrelated to the cold snakes down my spine. “Have a little patience.”

I glare at him. He just marches on, dodging patches of ice with an ease that makes me wonder whether his “slip” earlier had truly been an accident. My face heats with the memory—stuck between his body and the ice, gaze locked on his strange eyes, those few moments when…

I don’t finish the thought. It’s easier to be irritated.  

When he finally puts me down, keeping an arm beneath my shoulders as I regain my balance, the scent in the air gives away our destination.

“I did recommend sweets, did I not?” He holds the door open for me and I step inside the bakery, breathing in the intoxicating smell of fresh bread and warm sugar. “We don’t have to stay for long, but you need a pick-me-up.”

“Isn’t that what you just did?” I mutter through clenched teeth, shuddering as the heat in the room travels through me. Water drips onto the floor as I thaw in the doorway, but the lady watching us over the counter doesn’t seem to mind.

“Good evening,” she chirps, beaming at us. “Nasty weather, isn’t it? A few weeks into winter and I’m already wishing for summer again.” She chuckles warmly. “Can I interest you two in anything to eat or drink?”

I shake my head. “No, thank you.”

“Alright, dear. At least let me offer you a cup of tea. Your lips are positively blue.” My cheeks flare as she scrutinises me, and I accept the steaming cup of peppermint tea she hands me after a moment. My hands tingle as heat seeps through the mug and warms my frozen hands; fragrant steam curls into the air and caresses my face. I sigh, closing my eyes for a moment and enjoying this indulgent reprieve from the punishing cold.

Apparently satisfied with my care, the woman turns her appraising eye on Rhys. “Sir, can I get you anything?”

“I’ll have a hot chocolate, please, and an almond croissant,” he says, giving her a charming smile. A light flush rises to the woman’s cheeks, and I can barely stop myself from rolling my eyes. It seems that, intentionally or not, Rhys can seduce almost anyone. Almost.

“Absolutely. That comes to…” She frowns, then shakes her head. “Never you mind. Just enjoy, and take as long you need to warm up.” Rhys and I both open our mouths to protest, but she cuts us off with a look that reminds me distinctly of Alis. “It’s so rare and lovely to see fresh faces on my side of town. And what a lovely couple you two make.”

I splutter, trying to find the right words to refute her statement. Rhys coughs, his lips trembling at the corners, before replying with a smooth, “Thank you.” Whether his amusement is the product of my lack of eloquence or the notion of us being a couple is anyone’s guess, and I ignore the sting.

He collects his drink and pastry at the counter, and when his tattoo flashes as he reaches for the plate, my hand throbs painfully. Biting back a cry of surprise, I tuck my hand out of sight, grateful that my wrist cast didn’t get too wet earlier. How I would have justified refusing to take it off should it have gotten soaked, I have no clue.

I guide us towards the back of the bakery and slump gratefully into a plastic chair at the furthest table from the door and its draughts. Tea sloshes over the side of the mug as I set it down, scalding my hand and pooling on the table, and I close my eyes. Tonight needs to end, and soon. I don’t know how many more little things I can handle going wrong before I break down.

A scraping noise pierces the white-noise silence of my thoughts, and my eyes flutter open. Rhys is turned away from me, fiddling in his pocket for something; but when I look down, his almond croissant is sitting in front of me, a pink candle sticking out of it.

I stare at Rhys, perplexed. He clears his throat, not quite looking at me, and says, “Happy birthday, Feyre darling.” When I continue to gape at him, his half smile falters, then disappears. He narrows his eyes. “It is your birthday, isn’t it?” he asks cautiously.

I blink. So much has happened these past few weeks that I hadn’t given much thought to it—or any thought at all, actually. But, if yesterday was the twentieth, then… I nod, incredulous.

“How did you know?” I ask. I don’t remember mentioning it—I’ve always been uncomfortable with people making a big deal about my birthday. And lately, there’s been no question that I don’t merit any kind of “big deal”.

“Lucky guess?” he ventures. I lift a brow, not buying it. “Mor told me. Now, make a wish.” He pulls a lighter out of his pocket and sets the candle aflame.

I don’t know if I’ve ever believed in birthday wishes, even as a child, and it’s only been in recent years that I’ve had the small luxury of candles to wish on. Watching the flickering flame, a thousand impossible wishes flash through my mind—all futile, wasted words that, if acknowledged, will bring me nothing but disappointment. Many of them concern my tattoo—namely, getting rid of it—and I’m not foolish enough to humour wishes of warmth and… no. There is no candle, birthday wish magic or not, that could possibly grant me that, and I’m not in the practice of hoping for things I have no chance of receiving. So I settle for something simple.

_I wish that Rhys likes his Christmas gift._

I give a little puff of air and the flame sputters, then winks out. A thin wisp of smoke curls into the air, and a drop of pink wax falls onto the sugar-dusted almonds. When I make no move to grab the pastry, Rhys removes the candle and pushes the plate a few inches closer to me. The pitifully hopeful look on his face is what makes me, finally, lift it off the plate and take a bite.

I blink. The impossibly delicate pastry and the sweet almond paste complement each other beautifully, culminating in a lovely entanglement of flavour and texture that has me reaching for another bite right away. When I’m halfway done, I look up at Rhys, who looks a little bit too pleased with himself. I finish what’s left of it in a few indelicate bites and look away from him, focusing instead on dusting the icing sugar from my hands and trying not to get any on my leggings.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, sipping our drinks and letting ourselves warm up. Disappointment sits heavy in my stomach—another failed attempt at breaching the comfortable confines of the townhouse, and this time, it wasn’t even my fault. It feels like the world is laughing at me, if the repeated humiliations of the past few nights are any indication. From this latest unfortunate event all the way back to this damned tattoo, my luck has only been getting worse. My life with Tamlin wasn’t ideal, to be sure, but to have all of it ripped away because of something completely out of my control? It’s completely unfair. Another decision that should have been mine to make, stolen from me.

 _It was always like that with Tamlin, though_ . I would have had to face that truth eventually, one way or another—I know that now; my tattoo was just a convenient catalyst. Would he ever have allowed me the freedom I craved? Looking back, I can’t imagine it. My safety, his worry, was only part of it; somewhere between moving in with him months ago and fleeing that horrible night, I became more than just his girlfriend, somehow. In a way, I became...  _his_. 

Tamlin loved me, and he may still, but what does that mean for me? Some part of me still loves him, too, and misses him—the Tamlin who took care of me when I was alone in a foreign city with a home behind me that had long ceased being home. That Tamlin taught me what it was to be in love and showed me, in every way, what it was like to be loved back. But those habits, those overbearing tendencies, had always been there, lurking beneath the surface. Ultimately, they severed the old Tamlin, the one I fell in love with, from the one I left.

A more frightening question wriggles its way into my thoughts. _Did the man I remember ever really exist, or was he always who he is now_? Sienna’s death broke something in him, long before I met him; and maybe he thought that taking care of me, protecting me the way he hadn’t been able to do for her, would fix that travesty. I failed him in that.

My freedom, though—was it really worth it? I ruined a relationship, destroyed the man I loved, and alienated myself in every way from the world I wanted so badly to escape into. Certainly, I have the freedom to make my own mistakes now, but that’s all I seem to be doing.

I take a sip of my tea, cooled down enough now to drink without burning myself, and the world fades back into focus.

The bakery is warm and tranquil, and though I’ve stopped shivering, my legs are still frozen and tingling, my wet clothes making the even the lightest brush of air feel like falling into the ice all over again. Rhys’s jacket is still draped around my shoulders, and I remove it, laying it in my lap instead. The difference is immediate and profound, like soft armour from the cold. I shudder as some of the ice in my bones melts away.

Unfortunately, this relief is at the expense of Rhys’s jacket, which is surely absorbing the water soaking my leggings. I look up at Rhys, but he’s already peering at me over his mug, amused. I wonder how long he’s been doing that.

“Sorry about your coat,” I murmur. It’s probably worth twice what I make in a month, and now it’s soggy with muddy water.

“Don’t worry about it, darling. I care much more about protecting you from frostbite than I do about my coat. I have plenty of them, anyway, and I can get this one dry cleaned if you like it so much.”

I snort. “If you have so many jackets, how come this is only the second time I’ve seen you wearing one? And you didn’t even wear it for that long.”

“You needed it more than I did,” he says simply, “and I love that look you get on your face when I’ve breached some sort of arbitrary etiquette. There, that one.” I smooth my features, shades away from frowning.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Ah yes, but don’t forget delightful, charming, handsome, an excellent lov—”

“Modest?” I interrupt hastily, hoping my flat expression distracts him from the flush in my cheeks. That list could only have ended badly.

“That, too,” He winks. “All to say, feel free to use my coat however you like. You were bloody freezing, and I reckon you’d like to be a bit warmer before we walk home.” I grimace, hating myself for the ridiculous, fleeting hope that he’ll offer to carry me home, too. Decidedly better than walking—and so, so much worse.

I shove those thoughts away. Pushing my luck when it comes to Rhys has proven itself, time and again, to lead to trouble and nothing else.

I check to see if Rhys has finished his hot chocolate before saying, “We should probably get home.”

He smiles. “As the lady wishes. Is there any point in hoping it’s less wretched outside than when we got here?” I shake my head ruefully, _really_ not looking forward to finding out. My leggings have dried a bit, but they still cling to my legs, uncomfortably damp.

When I pick up Rhys's jacket, I’m pleasantly surprised to find that it is not as waterlogged as I anticipated, and I hand it back to him with a kind of relief. He accepts it, then wraps it around my shoulders again. “I’m fine, Feyre, really. I don’t want you freezing to death on your birthday. That would hardly be celebratory, would it?”

My lips twist to the side in an almost-smile. “Fine. But don’t blame me when you turn blue.”

“You needn’t concern yourself, darling. I’ve always found I look rather fetching in blue.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! I'm going to try to post as often as I can (emphasis on "try"), and feel free to let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading :)
> 
> P.S., I have no plans to abandon this fic (despite the possibly long waits between chapters), and if that day ever comes, I promise that I will mark it as "abandoned". Spoiler: Unlikely.


End file.
